4E  COPPERHEAD 


USTUS  THOMAS 


FRENCHSFWNDARD  UBRARY  EDITION 


SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  St.,  New  York 


THE  BAT 

A  mystery  play  in  3  acts.  By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart 
and  Avery  Hopwood.  Produced  originally  at  the  Morosco 
Theatre,  New  York.  7  males,  3  females.  2  interior  scenes. 
Modern  costumes. 

Miss  Cornelia  Van  Gorder,  a  maiden  lady  of  sixty,  has  leased  as  a 
restorative  for  frayed  nerves,  a  Long  Island  country  house.  It  had 
been  the  property  of  a  New  York  financier  who  had  disappeared 
coincidentally  with  the  looting  of  his  bank.  His  cashier,  who  is 
secretly  engaged  to  marry  Miss  Van  Gorder's  niece,  is  suspected  of 
the  defalcation  and  is  a  fugitive.  The  new  occupants  believe  the 
place  to  be  haunted.  Strange  sounds  and  manifestations  first  strengthen 
this  conviction  but  presently  lead  them  to  suspect  that  the  happen- 
ings are  mysteriously  connected  with  the  bank  robbery.  Any  sensible 
woman  would  have  moved  to  the  nearest  neighbors  for  the  night  and 
returned  to  the  city  next  day.  But  Miss  Van  Gorder  decided  to  re- 
main and  solve  the  mystery.  She  sends  for  detectives  and  then  things 
begin  to  happen.  At  one  time  or  another  every  member  of  the  house- 
hold is  suspected  of  the  theft.  The  audience  is  kept  running  up  blind 
alleys,  falling  into  hidden  pitfalls,  and  darting  around  treacherous 
corners.  A  genuine  thriller  guaranteed  to  divert  any  audience. 

(Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)    PRICE   75    CENTS. 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 

Comedy  in  3  acts.  By  Owen  Davis.  Produced  originally 
at  the  George  M.  Cohan  Theatre,  New  York.  8  males, 
3  females,  i  interior.  Modern  costumes. 

A  newly  married  couple  arrive  to  spend  their  honeymoon  in  a 
summer  cottage  owned  by  the  girl's  father,  who  has  begged  them 
nor  to  go  there,  because  he  claims  the  house  is  haunted.  Almost 
immediately  after  their  arrival,  strange  sounds  are  heard  in  the  house. 
The  bride  leaves  the  room  for  a  few  moments  and  when  she  re- 
turns, her  husband  is  talking  very  confidentially  to  a  young  woman, 
who  he  claims  has  had  trouble  with  her  automobile  down  the  road, 
and  he  goes  out  to  assist  her.  But  when  he  comes  back,  his  wife's 
suspicions  force  him  to  confess  that  the  girl  is  an  ild  sweetheart  of 
his.  The  girl  is  subsequently  reported  murdered,  and  the  bride  be- 
lieves her  husband  has  committed  the  crime.  A  neighbor,  who  is  an 
author  of  detective  stories,  attempts  to  solve  the  murder,  meantime 
calling  in  a  prominent  New  York  detective  who  is  vacationing  in 
the  town.  As  they  proceed,  everyone  in  the  action  becomes  involved. 
But  the  whole  thing  terminates  in  a  laugh,  with  the  most  uproarious 
and  unexpected  conclusion  imaginable. 

(Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)   PRICE  75  CENTS. 


The  Copperhead 

(From  "THE  GLORY  OF  HIS  COUNTRY,"  a  Story 
by  Hon.  Frederick  Landis) 


A  DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

BY 
AUGUSTUS    THOMAS 

Member  of  the  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 

Author  of:    Alaoama,  In  Mizzoura,  Arizona,  The  Other 
Girl,  Mrs.  Leffingwell's  Boots,  The  Earl  of  Paw- 
tucket,  The  Witching  Hour,  As  a  Man 
Thinks,  etc. 

COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  AUGUSTUS  THOMAS 
COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND 

COMPANY,  INC. 
In  a  volume  "Longer  Plays  by  Modern  Authors" 


CAUTION.  —  Professionals  and  amateurs  are  hereby  warned  that 
"THE  COPPERHEAD,"  being  fully  protected  under  the  Copy- 
right Laws  of  the  United  States  of  America,  is  subject  to  a 
royalty  and  anyone  presenting  the  play  without  the  consent  of 
the  owners  or  their  authorized  agents  will  be  liable  to  the 
penalties  by  law  provided.  Applications  for  the  Professional  and 
Amateur  acting  rights  must  be  made  to  Samuel  French,  25  West 
45th  Street,  New  York,  N.  Y. 


NEW  YORK 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PUBLISHED 
25  WEST  4STH  STREET 


LONDON 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  LTD. 

26  SOUTHAMPTON  STREET 

STRAND 


THE  COPPERHEAD 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


Especial  notice  should  be  taken  that  the  possession  of 
this  book  without  a  valid  contract  for  production  first 
having  been  obtained  from  the  publisher,  confers  no  right 
or  license  to  professionals  or  amateurs  to  produce  the  play 
publicly  or  in  private  for  gain  or  charity. 

In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading 
public  only,  and  no  performance,  representation,  produc- 
tion, recitation,  or  public  reading,  or  radio  broadcasting 
may  be  given  except  by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel 
French,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York. 

This  play  may  be  presented  by  amateurs  upon  payment 
of  a  royalty  of  Twenty-Five  Dollars  for  each  perform- 
ance, payable  to  Samuel  French,  25  West  45th  Street, 
New  York,  one  week  before  the  date  when  the  play  is 
given. 

Whenever  the  play  is  produced  the  following  notice  must 
appear  on  all  programs,  printing  and  advertising  for  the 
play:  "Produced  by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel 
French  of  New  York." 

Attention  is  called  to  the  penalty  provided  by  law  for 
any  infringement  of  the  author's  rights,  as  follows. 

"SECTION  4966: — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  rep- 
resenting any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which 
copyright  has  been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the 
proprietor  of  said  dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his 
heirs  and  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  damages  thereof,  such 
damages,  in  all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less 
than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty  dollars  for 
every  subsequent  performance,  as  to  the  court  shall  appear 
to  be  just  If  the  unlawful  performance  and  representation 
be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or  persons  shall  be 
guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction  shall  be  im- 
prisoned for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  year."— rU.  S. 
Revised  Statutes :  Title  60,  Chap..  3. 


PREFACE 

To  six  of  my  published  plays  I  have  written 
prefaces.  These  were  in  a  series  designed  as  each  of 
them  endeavored  to  state  to  help  rather  indirectly 
younger  men  than  myself  embarking  upon  the  busi- 
ness of  play  writing.  They  dealt  in  turn  with  the 
problems  first  of  writing  a  drama  that  should  ex- 
ploit a  theory;  next  to  write  a  play  fitting  a  par- 
ticular star;  a  third  making  use  of  bits  of  material 
that  come  to  a  writer's  notice  and  for  the  moment 
seem  irrelevant  to  his  work;  the  fourth  dealt  with 
writing  a  play  around  an  historic  character;  the 
fifth  was  of  a  comedy  where  a  man  played  himself ; 
the  sixth  was  to  write  for  two  men  already  coupled 
in  the  public  attention.  This  preface  will  tell  of 
writing  a  play  that  started  as  a  dramatization  of  a 
story  but  resulted  in  something  more  than  that. 

The  Glory  of  His  Country,  a  short  book  by  the 
Hon.  Frederick  Landis  of  Indiana,  told  of  an 
old  man,  the  keeper  of  a  country  turnpike, 
living  most  of  the  time  alone,  and  who  for  the  last 
forty  years  of  his  life  had  been  a  social  outcast 
among  his  loyal  neighbors  because  he  was  supposed 
to  have  sympathized  with  the  South  during  the  Civil 
War,  whereas  his  neighbors  in  this  northern  district 
were  fighting  for  the  Federal  Union.  Under  this 
ostracism  the  old  man's  mind  had  partly  given  way. 
His  only  interest  in  life  was  a  granddaughter,  his 
sole  surviving  relative.  His  activity  in  the  story  was 
an  optimistic  interest  in  the  Congressional  canvass  of 
a  young  man  who  had  become  interested  in  this 

3 


4  PREFACE 

granddaughter.  The  story  ends  with  the  old  man's 
dying  and  under  that  melancholy  set  of  circum- 
stances his  disclosure  to  the  neighbors  assembled  of 
a  letter  from  President  Lincoln  thanking  him  for 
his  services  during  the  war  in  which  he  had  been 
a  spy.  To  have  told  this  fact  in  the  earlier  days  of 
his  ostracism  might  have  been  perilous  as  there  still 
lived  enough  men  who  would  have  felt  themselves 
betrayed  and  perhaps  sought  vengeance!  Later  the 
habit  of  silence  had  settled  upon  him  and  his  isola- 
tion had  grown. 

The  characters  in  Mr.  Landis'  book  were  the 
quaint  people  of  an  Illinois  town.  The  incidents 
were  those  growing  out  of  the  simple  social  inter- 
changes of  that  community;  the  girl's  occasional 
visits  to  the  lonely  grandfather,  the  country  barbe- 
cue, and  the  like.  None  of  them  especially  dramatic, 
not  any  one  of  them  sufficient  to  invite  a  dramatist, 
but  the  poignantly  tragic  position  of  the  old  man  in 
this  lifetime  6f  martyrdom  was  so  effective  that  it 
justified  any  effort  to  properly  present  it  in  the 
theatre.  There  must  have  been  about  the  story  a 
considerable  conviction,  too,  in  its  simple  use  of 
local  color,  because  in  addressing  myself  to 
making  the  play  from  it  I  never  thought  outside 
of  its  conception.  The  play  had  not  been  an  easy 
one  to  write  in  its  first  draft:  the  three  act  form. 
I  had  scenes  about  the  country  hotel  and  in  the 
street.  I  tried  to  make  the  dramatic  machinery 
move  by  the  young  lawyer's  political  canvass  and 
the  attempts  of  his  unscrupulous  political  opponents 
to  hamper  him.  I  made  the  simple  old  man  the  dis- 
coverer of  these  machinations.  When  I  was  done 
I  had  a  tolerable  country  play  exploiting  an  eccentric 
old  man.  Mr.  Landis  and  I  both  liked  it  but  we 
were  prejudiced.  The  managers  to  whom  I  offered 
the  manuscript  cared  nothing  for  it.  The  three  acts 


PREFACE  5 

began  to  look  like  deadwood  and  the  time  put  in  on 
their  production  like  a  total  loss. 

One  day  my  boy  who  was  beginning  playwright 
and  had  a  libretto  in  collaboration  to  his  credit  as 
well  as  the  precepts  of  many  tiresome  talks  from  his 
father  as  part  of  his  equipment,  came  home  from 
the  Texas  border  where  he  had  been  with  the  New 
York  calvary  in  Squadron  A.  I  asked  him  to  read 
the  play  and  tell  me  what  was  the  matter  with  it. 
He  was  properly  modest  in  advancing  his  opinion, 
but  characteristically  youthful  in  its  expression.  His 
first  line  was :  "It  seems  to  me  you  ought  to  con- 
sume some  of  your  own  smoke."  We  talk  some- 
what cryptically  but  that  speech  was  unintelligible. 
"I  mean,"  he  added,  "you  ought  to  follow  some  of 
the  rules  you  have  given  me.  You've  always  said, 
'in  playwriting,  don't  talk  about  it,  do  it.'  Now  all 
the  interesting  things,  or  at  least  the  things  that  stir 
me  in  that  play  are  things  that  you  talk  about,  things 
that  happened  forty  years  before  in  the  Civil  War. 
I  don't  know  enough  about  the  game  to  advise  you 
in  any  retaliating  fashion,  but  if  the  theatre  will 
stand  for  a  division  of  that  play  into  two  epochs, 
one  during  the  Civil  War,  and  the  other  at  the  time 
of  Landis'  book,  I  think  it  would  make  a  drama." 

Being  a  parent  for  a  long  time  cultivates  one's 
self-control.  I  gave  the  boy  no  intimation  that  his 
suggestion  had  any  value,  but  it  fell  into  the  sluggish 
waters  of  my  own  intellectual  pool  like  a  sizzling 
aerolite.  I  could  hardly  wait  for  him  to  get  out  of 
the  study  and  let  me  tackle  the  manuscript.  The  re- 
sult was  the  four  act  version  that  is  offered  here- 
with in  which  the  Civil  War  period  is  treated  in  the 
first  two  acts  and  the  last  two  acts  are  devoted  to 
the  time  after  an  interval  of  forty  years.  The  won- 
derful advantage  of  the  suggestion  the  reader  who  is 
at  all  technical  will  immediately  see.  The  first  epoch 


6  PREFACE 

would  be  what  in  the  theatre  we  call  "period."  IV 
would  justifiably  have  all  the  color,  picturesqueness 
and  the  character  quality  of  that  early  stir  when  the 
country  was  getting  ready  for  war  and  was  em- 
barked upon  it. 

The  tragic  element  in  Shanks'  life  was  in  the  fact 
that  both  his  boy  who  died  at  Vicksburg  and  the 
wife  who  died  of  grief  following  the  son's  death  had 
gone  believing  him  to  be  a  Copperhead  and  a  traitor 
to  his  country.  To  show  this  son  at  the  time  of  life 
when  he  was  a  boy  of  sixteen  years  and  big 
enough  to  join  the  Army  made  Shanks  himself 
thirty-seven  or  thirty-eight  years  old  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  play.  His  surroundings  were  the  simple 
country  scenes  of  primitive  Illinois  with  which  I  was 
somewhat  familiar  in  recollection,  and  the  atmos- 
phere and  events  were  also  those  that  I  remembered 
with  great  vividness,  the  bitterness  between  the 
neighbors  on  that  border  line  of  the  two  sections ; 
the  activity  of  the  women  helping  the  men  with  their 
equipment  at  a  time  when  there  were  no  large 
clothing  manufactories,  and  when  much  of  the  cloth 
that  the  men  wore  in  their  civil  life  was  home-spun ; 
when  the  women  cut  and  sewed  uniforms  in  their 
volunteer  societies ;  the  young  boys  molded  minnie 
balls,  and  made  cartridges  for  the  muzzle  loading 
rifles.  There  was  Lincoln's  call  for  volunteers  and 
the  hurried  response  from  all  parts  of  the  north, 
and  when  the  wounded  began  to  come  home  there 
were  sanitary  fairs,  so  called,  at  which  money  was 
raised  for  hospital  equipment  both  there  and  in  the 
field.  All  of  this  associated  with  the  simple  and 
direct  speech  of  the  people  of  that  time  was  in  my 
memory.  When  it  came  to  characters  I  did  not  have 
to  go  outside  of  my  own  household  for  those  most 
typical.  The  militant  grandmother,  a  sacrificing, 
patient  mother,  a  father  who  had  been  to  the  Mexi- 


PREFACE  7 

can  War  and  was  qualified  by  experience  for  the 
hurried  organizations,  the  babies  that  had  to  be 
looked  after  while  the  men  were  away,  the  house- 
hold and  the  other  duties  present ;  the  uncertain  news 
from  the  front  and  the  acrid  criticism  of  the  anxious 
women  who  were  uninformed  but  positive  in  their 
opinions. 

To  hold  the  two  sections  of  the  play  together  it 
was  essential  that  those  in  early  manhood  in  the 
first  period  should  reappear  as  aged  and  veteran  in 
the  second  half  of  the  play.  For  the  leading  char- 
acter and.  some  of  his  associates  this  would  offer  to 
each  what  would  be  called  an  actor's  opportunity, 
and  for  the  girl  who  would  play  the  drudge  mother 
of  the  Civil  War  time  there  would  be  the  double  to 
her  own  granddaughter  in  the  period  of  1900.  Com- 
ing as  the  demand  for  the  story  did  just  when 
America  was  going  into  the  great  World  War  and 
with  the  non-resistance  and  other  reluctant  elements 
in  America  at  that  time,  the  parallel  was  so  close 
that  the  historic  conditions  of  '61  seemed  to  be 
almost  repertorial  accounts  of  1917,  and  the  fact  that 
the  story  was  in  terms  of  that  earlier  period  gave  it 
a  symbolic  force  that  would  have  been  lost  by  ap- 
pearing partisan  if  written  in  modern  terms.  The 
very  timeliness  of  it,  however,  made  the  writing  of 
the  two  acts  comparatively  easy. 

The  whole  purpose  of  the  story  being  to  show  the 
life-long  martyrdom  of  the  man,  Shanks,  it  was  of 
course  essential  in  devising  incidents  and  issues  for 
the  second  part  of  the  story  that  they  should  be 
affected  by  the  false  attitude  in  which  his  silent  sac- 
rifice had  placed  him,  and  of  course  they  would  be 
more  effective  if  their  consequences  fell  upon  those 
to  whom  he  was  attached  in  the  younger  generation. 
Beginning  in  the  third  act  what  was  practically  a 
new  play  with  a  large  proportion  of  new  questions. 


8  PREFACE 

the  real  task  confronting  a  playwright  was  to  hold 
this  second  half  up  to  the  first  part  by  the  surviving 
characters  and  their  memories.  The  success  in 
meeting  that  problem  was  a  question  for  the  text 
itself  to  determine.  If  we  may  rest  upon  the  ver- 
dict of  the  public  and  the  effect  of  the  play  in  the 
skillful  hand?  that  presented  it  one  should  feel 
content.  To  give  these  characters  and  memories 
something  upon  which  they  might  impinge  and  func- 
tion, I  introduced  the  love  of  the  young  people, 
Shanks'  granddaughter  and  the  young  Congress- 
man, the  anxiety  of  the  Congressman's  mother  to 
get  a  fitting  wife  for  him,  and  the  little  contest  that 
grew  out  of  the  application  of  the  girl  herself  for 
an  engagement  as  local  school  teacher  wherein  she 
was  opposed  by  a  less  able  girl  but  one  of  loyal 
antecedents. 

The  big  note  in  Mr.  Landis'  book  had  been  old 
Milt's  recital  of  his  interview  with  Abraham  Lin- 
coln at  the  White  House.  A  narrative  that  is  con- 
vincing and  permissible  in  a  book  is  often  difficult 
to  sustain  and  project  in  the  theatre.  As  I  was 
struggling  with  this  difficulty  one  night  in  my  own 
library  I  caught  sight  of  the  well-known  life  mask 
of  Lincoln,  a  plaster  copy  of  which  was  hanging 
over  the  fireplace.  This  particular  copy  had  been 
given  to  me  by  Mr.  Douglas  Volk,  the  eminent  por- 
trait painter.  The  original  had  been  taken  by  his 
father,  Mr.  Leonard  Volk,  the  sculptor,  immediately 
after  Lincoln's  election  in  1860  and  before  his  inau- 
guration. The  painter  had  repeated  to  me  his 
father's  story  of  getting  the  mask,  told  me  how  Lin- 
coln sat  in  a  kitchen  chair  while  the  soft  plaster  was 
thrown  on  his  face  in  order  to  make  the  mold  and 
told  me  also  how  a  piece  of  wood  was  needed  in 
order  to  keep  the  right  hand  steady  while  the  cast 
of  that  was  taken.  Lincoln  had  got  this  by  sawing 


PREFACE  9 

the  end  from  Mrs.  Lincoln's  broom  handle.  Mr. 
Volk  gave  me  also  a  copy  of  this  cast  of  the 
hand  with  the  broom  handle  in  it.  In  the  plaster 
are  the  marks  of  the  saw  that  Lincoln  used. 
As  two  of  the  characters  of  Mr.  Landis'  had 
been  neighbors  of  Lincoln  there  was  stage  license  in 
reporting  them  present  at  this  kitchen  interview  with 
the  sculptor.  To  put  that  mask  and  the  hand  that 
signed  the  proclamation  of  Emancipation  into  the 
last  act  was  very  simple.  When  old  Milt  told  his 
story  of  his  interview  in  the  White  House  this  re- 
cital was  incorporated ;  the  old  mask  was  taken  from 
his  own  mantlepiece  and  put  under  the  lamp.  The 
plaster  hand  was  exhibited  in  contrast  to  his  own. 
"A  bigger  man,"  Milt  says,  "bigger  man'n  me  every 
way."  The  effect  was  startling.  The  spirit  of  the 
martyred  President  seemed  to  be  in  the  room. 

The  element  of  timeliness  made  it  essential  to 
produce  the  play  promptly,  and  in  the  summer  of 
1918,  I  went  with  Mr.  Richard  Bennett  to  California 
where  it  was  planned  to  try  the  piece  in  a  stock 
engagement  which  he  had  arranged.  After  a  read- 
ing of  the  play  and  two  rehearsals,  the  managers  of 
the  theatre  thought  it  of  so  little  value  that  it  was 
discarded  notwithstanding  the  expense  attached  to 
trans-continental  travel  and  the  like.  In  the  fall, 
however,  Mr.  John  D.  Williams,  the  manager,  inter- 
ested Lionel  Barrymore  in  the  project.  Nothing 
could  equal  the  enthusiasm  of  that  young  actor  over 
a  mere  reading  of  the  'script.  Something  had  re- 
cently interested  him  in  the  life  of  John  Moseby 
and  all  of  the  border  conflict  that  made  the  back- 
ground of  the  first  half  of  the  play  was  more  vivid 
in  his  own  mind  than  it  was  in  mine.  If  I  had  been 
a  younger  author  I  would  have  been  spoiled  by  his 
finding  esoteric  meanings  in  nearly  every 
line;  and  the  task  of  giving  the  two  characteriza- 


io  PREFACE 

tions,  that  of  the  young  Milt  and  a  second  of  the 
old  man  was  one  that  appealed  to  him  from  every 
point  of  view. 

It  is  a  characteristic  of  most  authors  to  want  an 
elaborate  preparation  of  their  material.  But  Lionel 
Barrymore's  desire  for  that  quite  exceeded  my  own 
demands  and  really  taxed  the  patience  of  his  asso- 
ciates. The  result,  however,  was  one  of  the  most 
convincing  performances  that  the  American  theatre 
has  ever  had,  and  the  consequence  after  he  had  fin- 
ished the  play  was  his  equal  triumph  in  an  English 
version  of  Bernstein's  play,  The  Claw,  carrying  a 
similar  old  man. 

AUGUSTUS  THOMAS. 


THE  COPPERHEAD 

New  York,  February  18,  1918. 

CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

(In  the  order  of  their  appearance) 

FIRST  EPOCH 

JOEY  SHANKS  Raymond  Hackett 

GRANDMA  PERLEY  Eugenie  Woodward 

MA  SHANKS Doris  Rankin 

CAPTAIN  HARDY Albert  Phillips 

MILT  SHANKS Lionel  Barrytnore 

MRS.  BATES Evelyn  Archer 

SUE  PERLEY , Gladys  Burgette 

LEM  TOLLARD  Ethelbert  Hales 

NEWT  GILLESPIE William  C.  Norton 

ANDREWS    , Harry  Had  field 

SAM  CARTER Chester  Morris 

ADDITIONAL  CHARACTERS  IN  SECOND 
EPOCH 

MADELINE  KING Doris  Rankin 

PHILIP  MANNING Thomas  Corrigan 

MRS  MANNING  , Grace  Reals 

DR.  RANDALL Hay  den  Stevenson 


ii 


SYNOPSIS 

FIRST  EPOCH—  1861-63. 

ACT  I.     The  dooryard  of  Milton  Shanks. 

ACT  II.     The  Same.     Two  years  later 
SECOND  EPOCH—  Forty  years  later. 

ACT  III.    The  dooryard  of  Milton  Shanks. 

ACT  IV.    The  living  room. 

Scene  laid  in  southern  Illinois. 

CHARACTERS  IN  PART  ONE 
JOEY  SHANKS  .........................  Aged  16 


GRANDMA   PERLEY 
MA  (MRS.  SHANKS) 
CAPTAIN  HARDY 
MILT  SHANKS   . 


MRS.  BATES   30 

SUE  PERLEY  , 

LEM   TOLLARD   

NEWT  GILLESPIE 

ANDREWS,  a  minister   . 


38 

30 
60 
SAM  CARTER , 24 


76 
34 
36 
36 


o. 

Q. 

o 

(J 


-C 

H 


.C 

co 


The  Copper  Head 


PART  I 
ACT  I 

SCENE  :  The  dooryard  on  the  Illinois  farm  of  MIL- 
TON SHANKS. 

At  the  stage,  right,  is  a  porch  raised  six  inches 
from  ground  attached  to  the  lean-to  kitchen  of 
SHANKS'  house,  the  roof  of  which  disappears 
to  the  right.  Under  the  porch  down  stage  is  a 
window  with  a  door  in  second  entrance.  Behind 
the  porch  a  rail  or  other  rough  fence  straggles 
across  stage.  The  back  drop  shows  a  half  hilly 
country  with  the  wet  stubbly  earth  of  early 
spring.  Painted  on  the  center  of  this  drop  is  a 
sycamore  tree  sufficiently  distinctive  to  help 
identify  the  same  drop  under  July  color  and 
vegetation  in  Act  Two. 

On  the  stage  at  the  corner  of  the  house  up 
right  is  a  small  lilac  bush  which  shows  three 
years  advance  in  Act  Two,  and  is  a  good  lilac 
tree  of  forty  odd  years  of  age  in  the  last  two 
acts.  To  the  left  of  stage  in  second  plane  is 
rough  log  curb  to  well  fitted  with  bucket  on  a 
long  sweep  with  a  fulcrum  at  the  side  of  well 
and  tail  of  sweep  running  off  to  the  left.  Above 
this  well  is  a  young  apple  tree,  bare,  to  be  in 
foliage  and  fruit  in  Act  Two,  and  to  be  a  stal- 


14  THE   COPPERHEAD 

•wart,  old,  gnarly  apple  tree  in  the  last  two  acts. 
The  wings  at  the  left  are  bushes.  The  whole 
dooryard  is  filled  with  a  litter  of  neglected  farm 
material,  such  as  grindstones,  plow,  bits  of 
harness,  a  broken  wheel,  the  running  gear  of  a 
wagon,  and  the  like. 

DISCOVERED  :  JOEY,  a  boy  of  sixteen.  He  is  dressed 
like  the  son  of  a  poor  farmer  of  1861.  Joey  is 
molding  minnie  balls  over  a  charcoal  fire,  using 
one  mold  as  a  second  one  cools,  and  dropping 
the  finished  product  into  a  bucket.  He  is  im- 
patient and  fretful. 

After  a  mold  or  two,  GRANDMA  PERLEY  en- 
ters from  the  road.  GRANDMA  is  seventy-six — 
a  farmer's  woman  of  the  time.  She  smokes  a 
crock  pipe  with  a  reed  stem. 

GRANDMA.    Is  that  you,  Joey  ? 

JOEY.    Yes'm. 

GRANDMA.    Where's  your  ma  ? 

JOEY.    Sewing — inside. 

GRANDMA.    You  seem  cross  about  sumpin*. 

JOEY.  I  want  to  be  drillin'  and  they  detailed  me 
doin'  this. 

GRANDMA.    Drillin' ! 

JOEY.    Yes. 

GRANDMA.  "Detailed"  ye.  Have  you  volun- 
teered ? 

JOEY.    You  bet  I've  volunteered. 

GRANDMA.  (In  approval)  Well,  then,  you  go 
drill — I'll  do  that  for  you. 

JOEY.  Maybe  you  wouldn't  know  how,  Mrs.  Per- 
ley. 

GRANDMA.    Yes,  I  would. 

JOEY.    (Explaining)    This  is  hot  lead.    A  drop  of 


THE   COPPERHEAD  15 

it'll  burn  right  thro'  yer  shoe  before  you  kin  kick 
it  off. 

GRANDMA.    I  know. 

JOEY.  You  pour  it  in  these  holes  with  this  iron 
spoon. 

GRANDMA.  Lord,  boy,  don't  teach  yer  gran'- 
mother  how  to  suck  aigs!  I  molded  bullets  fer 
Andrew  Jackson.  Where's  yer  knife  to  trim  'em  ? 

JOEY.  (With  sample)  But  these  ain't  exactly 
bullets.  They're  minnie  balls.  That  ring  around 
'em  is  to  fasten  the  paper  cottridge  onto.  Here's 
one  with  the  cottridge  on  it. 

GRANDMA.  I  know  all  about  it.  And  the  ring 
holds  mutton  taller  that  turns  into  verdy  grease — 
an*  you  can't  volunteer  unless  ye  got  front  teeth  ter 
tear  the  cottridge  paper  to  let  the  powder  out  when 
you  ram  the  cottridge  home. 

JOEY.    That's  right,  grandma. 

GRANDMA.  In  1812  every  man  had  a  powder- 
horn.  This  idear  of  the  powder  fastened  right  on 
the  bullet  is  twice  as  quick. 

JOEY.  And  the  sharp  nose  on  the  bullet  makes 
'em  go  further. 

GRANDMA.  Let  a  Yankee  alone  for  inventions. 
Go  on  and  drill,  my  boy. 

JOEY.  Thank  you,  grandma.  (Enter  MA.  She  is 
a  beautiful,  dark-haired  drudge,  aged  thirty-four. 
She  carries  a  coat.) 

MA.    Where  you  goin',  Joey  ? 

JOEY.    Ter  drill. 

MA.    I  want  you. 

JOEY.  (Going)  They  ain't  time,  ma,  now — 
honest  they  ain't.  (Exits.  He  runs  off  behind  the 
house.) 

GRANDMA.  Let  him  alone,  Mrs.  Shanks.  I  told 
him  I'd  spell  him  at  these  molds.  It's  wimmen's 
work,  anyhow,  at  war  times. 


16  THE  COPPERHEAD 

MA.    You're  spoilin'  him. 

GRANDMA.  A  boy  'at  wants  ter  volunteer  has  a 
right  ter  be  spoiled — some. 

MA.  (Hesitating)  I  wanted  to  match  these  but- 
ton-holes— but  I  'spose  I  kin  measure  'em  from  the 
bottom. 

GRANDMA.    (Rising)    Why,  I'll  try  it  on  fur  yer. 

MA.    Will  that  do  it? 

GRANDMA.  Why  not?  Kain't  tell  from  my 
shoulders  whether  I'm  wearin'  breeches  or  not,  kin 
you?  An*  anyhow,  I'm  smokin'  a  pipe  man  fashion. 
(They  try  on  the  coat.) 

MA.  I  hate  ter  see  a  coat  pucker  when  it's  but- 
toned. 

GRANDMA.    No  need  to  have  it  pucker. 

MA.  (Kneeling)  I'll  jest  put  a  pin  at  each  place. 
(Does  so)  Joey  hed  no  right  to  unload  that  work 
onto  you. 

GRANDMA.  I  molded  bullets  before  they  ever  in- 
vented a  shot-tower.  I  was  only  twenty-five  years 
old  at  Fort  Dearborn  and  we  wimmen  all  molded 
'em — big  and  little.  Jim  Madison  had  let  the  Eng- 
lish set  the  red-skins  onto  us  and  thet  meant  more 
to  the  wimmen — I  tell  ye — than  it  did  to  any  man. 

MA.    (Finishing)    Thank  you,  grandma. 

GRANDMA.  (Resuming  work  with  the  bullet-mold) 
Any  war  will  always  mean  more  to  the  wimmen. 
It's  easy  enough  to  fight,  and  easy  enough  to  die. 
Stayin'  behind  with  yer  stummick  empty — an'  yer 
hands  tied — an'  yer  hearts  a-breakin',  is  the  perfect 
torment. 

MA.  We  kin  hope  and  pray  this  won't  be  a  real 
war. 

GRANDMA.  (Shakes  head)  No  fool's  paradise, 
Martha.  Men  that  own  niggers  ain't  a  gonta  git 
skeered  'cause  Mr.  Lincoln  jumps  at  'em  and  hollers 
"Boo."  He's  got  a  bigger  job  than  Jim  Madison 


THE    COPPERHEAD  17 

bed,  and  thet  lasted  two  years.  These  hellions  are 
right  on  the  ground — in  the  very  midst  of  us — some 
of  em's  livin'  right  here  in  our  own  state,  an'  to  git 
'em  out'll  be  like — bugs  in  a  rope  bedstid. 

MA.  (Going  toward  house)  Two  years !  Joey '11 
be  eighteen  before  then. 

GRANDMA.    Yes — if  he  lives. 

MA.  (Turning,  alarmed)  If  he  lives!  Why, 
Grandma  Perley! 

GRANDMA.    An'  I'H  be  sevinty-six — if  /  live. 

MA.  (On  porch)  Come  in  and  hev  some  tea, 
won't  you  ? 

GRANDMA.  No,  thank  you.  I've  got  my  pipe  and 
this  hot  lead  brings  back  old  times  a  bit.  (Enter 
HARDY,  in  captain's  uniform.  A  soldier  follows, 
without  uniform.) 

HARDY.    Good-afternoon.    Is  Milt  at  home? 

MA.  Good-afternoon,  Captain.  He's  inside. 
(Calls)  Milt — here's  Captain  Hardy. 

HARDY.    Good-afternoon,  Mrs.  Perley. 

GRANDMA.    How  de  do,  Captain. 

HARDY.  (Goes  to  well  curb)  Doing  your  share, 
I  see. 

GRANDMA.  Tryin'  to,  Captain — an'  I'll  keep  the 
wimmen  o'  this  neighborhood  at  sumpin'  as  long  as 
the  trouble  lasts.  (Enter  SHANKS,  with  baby,  which 
MA  takes.  SHANKS  is  a  farmer  of  thirty-six.) 

SHANKS.    Afternoon,  Captain  Tom. 

HARDY.  You've  got  a  wagon  and  two  horses, 
Milt? 

SHANKS.    I  hev — yes. 

HARDY.  My  company's  got  orders  to  move.  The 
ammunition  and  supplies  will  need  four  wagons  to 
carry  them. 

SHANKS.  Well,  I  kain't  stop  yer  takin'  mine,  if 
you  mean  that. 


i8  THE    COPPERHEAD 

HARDY.  I  don't  want  to  take  it.  We'll  hire  it — 
and  we'll  pay  you  for  your  time,  too. 

SHANKS.    (Shakes  head)    I  couldn't  go  myself. 

MA.    Why  not,  Milt? 

SHANKS.  I  don't  hold  fur  this  coercin'  of  South- 
ern people — I  don't. 

HARDY.  You  hold  for  the  North  defending  itself 
when  the  South  begins  shooting,  don't  you? 

SHANKS.  I  don't  really  know  as  I  do.  They 
haven't  come  into  our  territory  any — yitf 

HARDY.  They're  threatening  the  arsenal  at  St. 
Louis. 

SHANKS.    Well,  Missouri's  a  slave  State,  ain't  it? 

HARDY.  (Impatient)  I  can't  do  your  thinking 
for  you  now.  I  want  your  team. 

SHANKS.  (Hands  up)  Well,  you've  got  the 
power. 

HARDY.    Can't  you  persuade  him,  Mrs.  Shanks  ? 

MA.  I'm  afraid,  Captain,  that  his  head's  turned 
with  these  secession  sympathizers.  He's  wearin'  one 
of  their  copper  buttons. 

GRANDMA.  The  Tories  tried  that  "sympathizin'  " 
business  in  1812.  We  burnt  one  o'  their  newspaper 
offices  and  run  some  o'  them  theirselves  over  the  line 
ter  Canada. 

HARDY.  (Writing)  I'll  take  your  team,  Milt — 
but  I'll  give  you  a  Government  warrant  that'll  get 
you  the  money  for  it. 

SHANKS.  Make  it  in  ma's  name,  Captain.  In 
my  eyes,  it'd  be  blood  money. 

MA.  Will  you  eat  the  provisions  I  buy  with  the 
blood  money? 

SHANKS.  Not  if  you  keep  'em  separated  from 
what  I  bring  in,  I  won't. 

HARDY.  There,  Mrs.  Shanks.  'Tisn't  their  value, 
perhaps,  but  that's  the  Government  rate. 

MA.    Thank  you. 


THE    COPPERHEAD  19 

HARDY.    (To  SHANKS  j     Show  us  your  team. 

MA.  Oh,  Captain,  these  buttons — does  it  matter 
if  I  sew  clear  through  the  facin's  ?  I  kain't  pick  up 
one  piece,  tailor-fashion. 

HARDY.  Not  a  bit.  Tie  them  on,  if  you  want  to. 
Come,  Milt?  (Exits  with  SHANKS  and  soldier.) 

GRANDMA.  Hardy's  more  tender  with  Milt  than 
Nathan  Heald  would  a  been. 

MA.    Who? 

GRANDMA.  Captain  Nathan  Heald  commanded  at 
Dearborn.  A  militia  man  talked  meal-mouthed  like 
Milt  done  jest  now,  and  Nathan  Heald  took  his 
sword  hilt  butt  end  and  knocked  out  all  his  teeth. 
(Enter  MRS.  BATES  from  road  back  of  house,  carry- 
ing a  blue  coat  she  works  on.) 

MRS.  BATES.    Ain't  that  Captain  Hardy? 

MA.    Yes.    What's  the  matter? 

MRS.  BATES.  I  forget  which  side  of  a  man's  coat 
the  button-holes  go  on. 

MA.    Why,  the  left  side. 

MRS.  BATES.    Air  you  sure? 

GRANDMA.  Ain't  you  never  made  no  clothes  fur 
yer  own  men  folks  ? 

MRS.  BATES.    Not  soldier  clothes,  I  ain't. 

GRANDMA.  Well,  the  left  side  fur  button-holes — 
right  side  fur  buttons.  Men  are  all  one-handed. 
Wimmen's  clothes  button  with  the  left  hand  so  they 
can  have  their  right  arm  to  carry  a  baby. 

MRS.  BATES.  Jim  said  I  was  wrong.  I've  sewed 
this  button-hole  slip  the  tailor  gave  us,  on  the  wrong 
side. 

GRANDMA.    Rip  it  off. 

MRS.  BATES.    I've  cut  thro'  the  cloth  that's  over  it. 

GRANDMA.  Never  mind.  They'll  find  some  left- 
handed  man.  (Enter  SUE,  a  girl  of  fourteen.) 

SUE.    Oh,  Mrs.  Shanks ! 

MA.    What  is  it,  Sue? 


20  THE    COPPERHEAD 

SUE.    The  men  are  going  away. 

GRANDMA.  Why  ain't  you  at  the  church  pickin' 
lint? 

SUE.  My  bundle's  all  done.  They're  going  right 
away. 

MRS.  BATES.  They'll  have  to  wait  for  this  coat, 
I  reckon. 

GRANDMA.     (Rising)     You  sure?     (To  SUE.) 

SUE.    Yes,  Grandma. 

GRANDMA.  Then  they  better  have  what's  done  of 
these.  (Begins  to  trim  the  bullets  and  collect  them. ) 

SUE.  Oh,  Grandma !  Bullets !  (Re-enter  SHANKS.) 

GRANDMA.    Yes,  bullets. 

SUE.    That  don't  seem  like  woman's  work. 

GRANDMA.  In  a  real  war,  everything's  woman's 
work,  from  bringin'  'em  into  the  world  right  up  to 
closin'  their  eyes. 

MA.  (Shocked)  Oh,  Mrs.  Perley!  (MRS. 
BATES  also  shrinks  and  exclaims.) 

GRANDMA.  Oh,  you  wimmen  with  yer  "faint  an' 
fall  in  it"  high  falutin's  are  what's  makin'  the  fool 
peace  talk  amongst  the  men.  (Goes  to  gate  with 
bucket.)  "Close  their  eyes" — yes.  A  man  plows 
and  threshes  and  grinds  hisself  to  death  in  sixty 
years  and  ye  call  it  the  Lord's  will.  I  don't.  It's 
what  he  dies  fur  that  tells  the  tale.  I  lost  a  husband 
at  Fort  Dearborn,  and  a  father  at  Detroit,  and  a 
brother  on  Lake  Erie — different  ages  then,  but  equal 
now,  'cause  they  died  fur  Freedom — fur  Liberty. 
(Exits.) 

SUE.    Gramma  ought  a  been  a  man.    (Exits.) 

MA.  Take  this  child ;  I  gotta  finish  these  buttons. 
(SHANKS  takes  baby  to  house.) 

MRS.  BATES.    What's  Milt  so  downcast  about? 

MA.  The  army  has  took  our  team.  (Points  off 
left.) 

MRS.  BATES.    Oh — there  comes  Lem  Tollard. 


THE    COPPERHEAD  21 

MA.  (Going)  Yes.  Another  rebel  sympathizer. 
Will  you  come  inside? 

MRS.  BATES.  No ;  I'll  go  home  and  fix  this  coat 
if  I  kin.  (Exit  MA  in  house.  LEM  TOLLARD 
enters  left  at  back.  He  is  a  tough  Illinois  farmer  of 
1 86 1,  with  scowl  and  under  jaw,  easily  dressed  and 
about  thirty-eight  years  old.  MRS.  BATES,  going, 
looks  at  him.  He  touches  his  hat.  MRS.  BATES 
exit.  LEM  looks  cautiously  over  fence  and  comes 
into  yard;  reconnoiters  house  and  whistles  signal 
toward  porch.  Evidently  gets  attention  inside  and 
beckons.  SHANKS  comes  from  house,  sees  LEM, 
looks  back  into  house,  meets  LEM  left  center.) 

SHANKS.    What'd  you  find  out? 

LEM.  These  fellers  air  gonta  march  in  a  day  or 
two,  from  the  looks  o'  things ! 

SHANKS.    Whereto? 

LEM.  Missouri,  I'd  say.  That  visitin'  member  of 
our  Lodge  that's  here  from  Indiana  understands 
telegraphin' — kin  read  it  by  ear. 

SHANKS.    By  ear? 

LEM.  You  bet !  He  kin  jest  lean  against  a  depot 
an'  tell  nearly  every  word  the  machine's  a  sayin'.  He 
picked  up  "Camp  Jackson" — and  "St.  Louis" — and 
"Government  troops  from  Quincy"  goin'  to  the 
Arsenal  there  in  St.  Louis.  Company  from  here  is 
goin'  to  Quincy.  Now,  what's  our  move? 

SHANKS.    Why  do  we  have  to  do  anything? 

LEM.    Why,  Camp  Jackson's  our  people. 

SHANKS.    Air  they? 

LEM.    Yes,  at  St.  Louis. 

SHANKS.  Why,  then,  we  oughta  git  word  to  'em, 
I  suppose — but,  jeemunently — how? 

LEM.  I've  been  to  St.  Louis  in  my  time,  with 
hides  and  taller. 

SHANKS.    Then  you're  the  man  to  go,  I'd  say. 


22  THE   COPPERHEAD 

LEM.  I'm  ready  to  go,  but  it  entitles  me  to  rail- 
road tickets  and  my  keep  while  I'm  away. 

SHANKS.    Naturally. 

LEM.  An'  no  use  callin'  a  meetin'  if  you  gimme 
your  word  fur  it  that  the  circle  makes  it  up  to  me 
when  I  git  back. 

SHANKS.    I  give  you  my  word  fur  it,  Lem. 

LEM.  All  right.  (Starts  off;  stops;  returns.) 
An'  see  here,  Milt,  your  boy  Joe — 

SHANKS.    What  about  him? 

LEM.  He's  still  drillin'  with  Newt  Gillespie's  out- 
fit— like  I  said  he  was. 

SHANKS.  Why  not,  if  it  amuses  him?  No  guns, 
and  Joe's  only  sixteen  and  a  little  over. 

LEM.  Every  man  or  boy  we  keep  out  of  it,  the 
better. 

SHANKS.  Besides,  Joe's  drillin'  and  cheerin' 
keeps  suspicion  off  o'  me.  Lord,  his  mother's  sewin' 
uniforms  for  Hardy's  Company!  What  do  we 
care? 

LEM.  (Not  convinced)  You  may  be  right. 
(Pause.)  An'  if  any  suspicion  falls  on  me  fur  this 
St.  Louis  trip,  you're  my  witness  that  I  went  there 
on  business  o'  some  kind  fur  you. 

SHANKS.  You  did.  There's  a  mule  auction  there, 
I've  heard. 

LEM.    There  is — Tenth  and  Biddle  Street. 

SHANKS.  Well,  how's  this?  These  troops  has 
took  my  team,  and  you  went  there  to  buy  another 
team  fur  me? 

LEM.    Why  didn't  I  get  'em? 

SHANKS.  The  army's  buyin'  'em.  That's  a  good 
reason.  Price  went  up.  Everything  is  goin'  up, 
ain't  it? 

LEM.  (Pause)  I'll  write  you  a  letter  about  'em 
— through  the  post-office — sayin'  that,  and  you  keep 
it. 


THE    COPPERHEAD  23 

SHANKS.    'Nuf  said.    (Enter  MA.) 

MA.    (On  porch)    Well,  Lem,  what  is  it? 

LEM.    Good-  mornin'. 

MA.  The  President's  called  fur  seventy-five  thou- 
sand volunteers.  Did  you  see  it  ? 

LEM.    I'm  thirty-eight  years  old. 

MA.     So's  Captain  Hardy. 

LEM.     (Fishing)    And  my  insteps  ain't  strong. 

MA.     Your  insteps  air  all  right,  ain't  they,  Milt? 

SHANKS.  They  air,  thank  Gawd,  but  not  fur  any 
unholy  cause  like  an  army  against  our  own  country- 
men. 

MA.  (To  LEM,)  I  see  you're  wearin'  one  o'  them 
copperheads  in  yer  button-hole,  too. 

LEM.  (Regarding  button)  The  Goddess  of  Lib- 
erty— yes. 

MA.  Liberty,  is  it?  I  notice  that  every  brute 
that's  ever  turned  a  dog  loose  after  a  poor  black 
slave  runnin'  past  here  from  the  Ohio  River,  is 
wearin'  one  of  'em. 

SHANKS.    Oh,  politics  ain't  fur  women,  Ma! 

MA.  They  always  have  been  in  this  house  until 
Fort  Sumter  was  fired  on — an'  I  never  looked  for 
you  to  eat  yer  own  words,  Milt  Shanks. 

SHANKS.  I  ain't  eatin'  my  words.  I'm  fur  peace, 
that's  all — peace.  I've  got  two  children  ter  support. 

MA.  Ye  hed  one  when  the  Mexican  War  broke 
out,  an'  yer  was  devil  bent  to  go  to  that. 

SHANKS.  Mexicans  is  different — but  not  our  own 
countrymen.  (Turns.)  Don't  mind  her,  Lem. 

MA.  An'  as  fur  protectin'  yer  children,  that's 
what  I'm  askin'  yer  ter  do.  It's  the  shame  of  it 
that's  drivin'  Joey  into  the  volunteers — the  shame  of 
it. 

LEM.  (Contradicting)  No,  no.  Just  boys'  ways, 
Mrs.  Shanks. 

SHANKS.    They  don't  want  men  as  old  as  us. 


24  THE    COPPERHEAD 

MA.  Then  why  don't  you  say  jes'  that,  and  stop 
yer  peace  hyprocrisy  and  throw  away  that  copper- 
head off  o'  yer  button-hole? 

LEM.  That  shows  we're  united,  too,  Mrs.  Shanks. 
The  lovers  of  liberty  air  united. 

MA.  We  understand  round  here  that  you  owned 
a  nigger  yerself  'fore  you  left  Kentucky. 

LEM.  In  Kentucky  everybody  owned  'em  'at  could 
afford  it. 

MA.    That's  a  lie,  Lem  Tollard. 

SHANKS.    Ma,  how  kin  you  know  ? 

MA.  I've  heard  Abraham  Lincoln  say  it  was. 
(To  LEMJ  An'  I  call  you  mighty  poor  company, 
even  fur  Milt  Shanks.  (Enter  GILLESPIE  and  AN- 
DREWS, a  preacher.  Both  carry  some  new  uniforms.) 

GILLESPIE.     Sorry  to  rush  you,  Mrs.  Shanks — 

MA.  What  is  it,  Mr.  Gillespie?  Good  afternoon, 
Brother  Andrews. 

ANDREWS.    Sister  Shanks. 

GILLESPIE    Got  to  have  everything  that's  finished. 

ANDREWS.    The  Company  has  orders  to  march. 

MA.  Thank  God  that  temptation's  goin'  away 
from  Joey  at  last.  They're  done,  Newt.  Only  bast- 
in'  threads  to  take  out.  (Exits.) 

GILLESPIE.  Don't  stop  fur  that.  Any  feller  they 
fit  kin  pick  out  the  threads. 

SHANKS.    Where  air  you  goin'? 

GILLESPIE.  What  the  hell's  that  to  you?  Excuse 
me,  Brother  Andrews.  (To  SHANKS)  Git  a  gun  an' 
fall  in,  like  you  oughta,  and  you'll  find  out. 

LEM.    Don't  answer  him.  Milt.     (Exit.) 

ANDREWS.  The  military  men  are  not  permitted 
to  give  information  of  that  character.  Mr.  Shanks. 

GILLESPIE.  He  knows  that  well  enough — and  we 
wouldn't  give  it  to  the  enemy  if  we  did.  (Re-enter 
MA  with  two  suits,  of  blue.) 


THE   COPPERHEAD  25 

MA.  (Handing  clothes)  Nothin'  to  brag  on, 
Newt,  fur  looks — but  they  won't  blow  apart. 

GILLESPIE.  You  oughta  have  a  right  ter  wear  'em 
yerself,  'stead  o'  sech  as  him. 

MA.  That  spot'll  wash  out.  It's  only  a  little 
curdled  milk — stummick  teeth.  I  had  to  take  her 
up  a  while  when  I  was  sewin'  last  night. 

GILLESPIE.  Fur  stummick  teeth  and  curdlin',  my 
woman  gives  'em  lime  water.  (Enter  HARDY.; 

HARDY.     Make  haste,  Gillespie. 

GILLESPIE.  (Salutes)  Jest  foldin'  'em,  Captain. 
Come  on,  Brother  Andrews. 

ANDREWS.  (To  HARDY;  I'd  go  with  you,  Cap- 
tain, if  I  were  young  enough. 

HARDY.  I'm  sure  you  would,  sir.  (To  GILLESPIE,) 
Where's  the  rest  of  your  squad  ? 

GILLESPIE.    All  over  town. 

ANDREWS.  Twenty  ladies  been  sewin'.  fGiL- 
LESPIE  salutes.  Exit  with  clothes,  on  run.  AN- 
DREWS follows.) 

HARDY.    Thank  you,  Mrs.  Shanks. 

MA.    God  bless  you,  Tom  Hardy ! 

HARDY.    (Pauses  and  pleads)    Come  on,  Milt. 

SHANKS.    'Taint  possible,  Tom.    (HARDY  looks  at 

MA.; 

MA.  I've  told  him  I'd  git  on — Joey's  as  good  at 
sixteen  as  a  man  twenty-one.  (The  baby  cries  off 
right.  Exit  MA.; 

HARDY.    You  wanted  to  go  with  me  in  '47. 

SHANKS.    That  was  different,  Tom. 

HARDY.  And  you  wanted  to  go  to  West  Point 
when  I  did. 

SHANKS.    Yes. 

HARDY.  I  wish  you  had  gone.  (Pause.)  Did 
you  hear  Colonel  Grant  muster  in  our  Company  last 
week  ? 


26  THE    COPPERHEAD 

SHANKS.    (Shakes  head)    I  wasn't  there. 

HARDY.  He  said  a  dead  rebel  would  be  envied 
compared  to  the  man  on  the  Northern  side  who 
stayed  home  and  gave  comfort  to  the  enemy. 
(Pause.)  They  tell  me,  Milt,  you've  been  making 
that  mistake  yourself — comfort  to  the  enemy. 

SHANKS.    I  don't  know  as  I  have. 

HARDY.    That  button  shows  it. 

SHANKS.  It  stands  fur  peace  and  the  liberty  our 
fathers  won. 

HARDY.     How  did  our  fathers  win  their  liberty? 

SHANKS.    Why — fightin'. 

HARDY.  Exactly  !  And  the  fight  isn't  over.  Come 
on!  Remember  who's  calling — our  own  candidate 
— our  own  neighbor — our  own  friend — Lincoln. 

SHANKS.  Lincoln  wasn't  fur  war  when  we  elect- 
ed him.  He's  lettin'  'em  make  him  jest  an  instru- 
ment in  the  devil's  hands.  (Enter  MA  with  baby.) 

HARDY.  (Hand  to  SHANKS'  throat)  Stop! 
(Pause.)  I'd  shoot  another  man  that  said  that. 
(MA  exclaims.  Pause.)  I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Shanks — 
sorry. 

MA.    (Pause)    Fm  sorry,  Captain.  (Enter  JOEY.) 

JOEY.     Mother — mother 

MA.    Well,  Joey? 

JOEY.    You  gave  Newt  Gillespie  my  uniform. 

MA.    'T wasn't  yours,  dear. 

JOEY.    Why,  you  made  it  to  fit  me — didn't  you  ? 

MA.  I  tried  it  on  you,  boy,  to  get  it  straight; 
that's  all. 

JOEY.  Captain  Hardy,  'tain't  fair!  I'm  as  good 
in  the  drill  as  any  man  in  your  company. 

HARDY.    You're  only  sixteen,  Joe. 

JOEY.  Coin'  on  seventeen.  I'm  in  the  same  class 
at  school  with  Sam  Perley  and  Jim  Evers  and  Henry 
Bates.  They're  goin'.  7  cut  wood  and  swing  a 
scythe  and  lift  a  bag  of  oats  with  any  of  'em. 


THE   COPPERHEAD  27- 

HARDY.  Well,  there'll  still  be  wood  to  cut,  Joey, 
and  farm  work  to  do  back  here. 

JOEY.  And  the  uniform  fits  me — my  own  mother 
made  it. 

MA.    For  the  army,  Joey — not  for  you. 

JOEY.  Why,  Mother,  you  put  yer  hands  on  my 
face  and  said :  "Don't  ever  disgrace  it,  boy." 

MA.  Yes — like  I'd  say  fur  the  flag.  (HARDY 
starts.) 

JOEY.  Don't  go,  Captain.  If  she  says  yes?  Say 
yes,  Mother — say  yes ! 

MA.  Why,  Joey,  me  and  Elsie  needs  somebody. 
I  ain't  despaired  yit  of  yer  father  goin'. 

JOEY.  Why —  (Pause.)  Has  he  changed  his 
mind  ?  (Pause.)  Dad  ? 

SHANKS.  (Pause)  I  can't  go — I  can't — knowin' 
everything  as  I  do. 

HARDY.  (To  MA^  Good-by.  (Goes  quickly. 
JOEY  throws  himself  on  the  well  curb  in  tears.  After 
a  pause  MA  walks  to  him  and  puts  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  JOEY  turns  at  her  touch  and  buries  his 
face  in  her  lap  as  he  kneels.  With  the  baby  in  her 
arms,  the  three  make  an  effective  group.) 

MA.  (Pause)  Joey — Joey —  (The  boy  looks  up.) 
I  used  ter  carry  you  this  way,  dearie. 

JOEY.     (Rising)     Well,  I  kud  carry  you,  now. 

(Re-enter  GRANDMA,  without  her  pipe.) 

MA.    That's  what  I'm  askin'  you  ter  do,  son. 

JOEY.  But  not  tied  ter  yer  apron-strings,  ma.  All 
the  fellers  that  air  goin'  air  doin'  it  fur  their  folks 
at  home — defendin'  them. 

GRANDMA.  Gimme  that  child.  Yer  plumb  tuck- 
ered out.  (Takes  baby.) 

MA.    Kain't  you  say  nothin',  Milt  Shanks? 

SHANKS.    I'm  fur  peace.    I've  said  that  time  and 


28  THE    COPPERHEAD 

agin.  Joey's  heered  me.  (Exit  GRANDMA  with  baby 
to  house.) 

JOEY.  7  ain't  fur  peace  when  they're  shootin'  at 
the  flag ! 

SHANKS.  But  I  understand  a  boy's  feelin's,  too. 
When  I  was  sixteen,  I'd  o'  felt  jest  the  way  Joey 
does. 

MA.     Yer  urgin'  him  to  go? 

SHANKS.  No,  by  God,  I  ain't  urgin'  him!  He 
don't  seem  ter  need  it.  I  only  say  it's  natural,  and 

as  long  as  I  live (Pause.)  I'll  remember  that 

my  boy (Pause  and  control.)  I'll  remember  he 

was  natural  and  manful. 

JOEY.    Kain't  yer  see  /  got  ter  do  it? 

MA.    Yer  only  sixteen,  Joey. 

JOEY.  I'm  strong  as  twenty  an'  a  blamed  sight 
quicker. 

MA.    Yer  might  git  wounded. 

JOEY.  I  been  wounded  by  a  pitchfork — and  Per- 
ley's  dog  bit  me.  I  "heal  up"  quicker'n  a  feller  o' 
twenty ! 

MA.  Some  boys  will  git  killed,  Joey.  I  kain't  let 
you  go  at  sixteen. 

JOEY.  If  I  hang  round  till  I'm  older,  you'll  only 
git  fonder  of  me,  an'  if  a  feller  is  gona  be  killed, 
what's  the  difference  sixteen  or  twenty? 

MA.  (To  SHANKS,)  Yer  see  how  he's  a-strainin" 

ter  git  away,  Milt.  I  ain't  sendin'  either  of  yer 

(To  JOEYJ  But  you  won't  go,  Joey,  if  yer  father 
goes,  will  you?  (Watches  SHANKS  anxiously.) 

JOEY.  We  couldn't  both  leave  you  and  Elsie,  of 
course. 

MA.    There,  Milt.     (SHANKS  shakes  head.) 

JOEY.  (In  a  burst)  God  A'mighty,  Ma,  let  me 
have  one  parent  I  kin  look  up  to !  Quick !  Please, 
'cause  some  other  feller'll  git  my  uniform  in  a 
minute. 


THE    COPPERHEAD  29 

MA.  It's  big  enough  f er  yer  father.  You  git  it — 
and  we'll  see  about  who  goes  with  the  Company. 

JOEY.  Aha!  Bully!  (Exit;  runs  off  back  of 
house.  MA  watches  him  out  of  sight,  her  hand  to 
her  lips.  Then  turns.) 

MA.  I  know  Captain  Hardy  will  send  him  back, 
an'  then — then  you'll  jest  hev  ter  take  his  place,  Milt. 

SHANKS.  God  bless  you,  Ma.  Yer  like  the  won- 
derful women  that  put  the  stars  in  the  flag,  an'  I 
ain't  worthy  ter  undo  the  latchets  o'  yer  shoes — but 
I  kain't  go  inter  this  army. 

MA.  "The  stars  in  the  flag!"  (Pause.)  I  stud 
here  by  this  well  with  my  arms  round  yer  neck,  Milt, 
when  Joey  was  only  three — holdin'  yer  back  that 
time  from  Mexico,  and  yer  talked  about  "the  stars 
in  the  flag"  then.  I  thought  you  wuz  the  handsom- 
est thing  in  the  whole  State  of  Illinois  and  I  prayed 
God  to  make  our  boy  hev  some  of  your  spirit  instead 
of  mine  when  he  growed  up  to  be  a  man. 

SHANKS.  Sorry  I  talked  about  'em  agin — but  it's 
kind  o'  the  same  subject,  after  all. 

MA.  We  ain't  hed  riches,  and  I've  hed  some  sick- 
ness, but  I've  kind  o'  lived  on  my  respect  and  trust 
in  you,  Milt.  Don't  tell  me  that  everything  I  loved 
you  fur  is  dead  in  you. 

SHANKS.    I've  loved  yer,  too,  Martha. 

MA.    I  think  you  hev. 

SHANKS.    An'  I  still  do. 

MA.    Well,  I'm  tryin',  Milt. 

SHANKS.  I  still  do.  Fur  time  and  eternity — 
(Pause) — an'  without  wantin'  ter  harp  on  the  same 
subject — jest  as  sure  as  the  stars  air  in  the  flag, 
you'll  look  inter  my  face  some  time,  an'  admit  I  was 
right. 

MA.  Never — never!  (Exit  to  house.  SHANKS 
lifts  his  hands  to  Heaven  in  protest,  pulls  himself 
together  and  cleans  up  the  charcoal  furnace  outfit.) 


30  THE    COPPERHEAD 

(Enter  LEM  quickly.) 

LEM.    Milt ! 

SHANKS.    Hello ! 

LEM.  (Excited)  They're  gonta  march  to-day — 
not  to-morrow. 

SHANKS.    Air  they? 

LEM.  Yes.  I  got  to  git  out  on  to-night's  train 
fur  St.  Louis. 

SHANKS.    I  'spose  yer  hev — really. 

LEM.  No  chance  to  see  anybody.  How  much 
money  you  got  on  you  ? 

SHANKS.    (Counting)    I'll  see.    Six  bits. 

LEM.  Great  Scott!  Well,  give  it  to  me.  If  you 
can  scrape  up  any  more,  bring  it  to  me  at  the  depot. 
(Starts,  stops.)  An'  remember  yer  obligation — "a 
brother  Knight's  wife  or  parents,  or  any  dependent 
on  him."  (Holds  up  right  hand  as  taking  oath.) 

SHANKS.  (With  same  sign)  "Or  any  dependent 
on  him." 

LEM.    Look  in  at  my  place  now  and  agin. 

SHANKS.    Yes — I  will. 

LEM.    Here's  Gillespie,  runnin'.     I  told  you! 

(Enter  GILLESPIE  on  a  run.) 

GILLESPIE.    Any  ammunition  here? 
SHANKS.    Ammunition  ? 

(Exit  LEM  significantly.) 

GILLESPIE.  Minnie  balls.  Your  Joey  was  moldin' 
'em. 

(Enter  ANDREWS,  evidently  following  GILLESPIE.  ) 

SHANKS.  Oh,  Mrs.  Perley  took  them.  (Calls) 
Mrs.  Perley — Mrs.  Perley! 


THE    COPPERHEAD  31 

GILLESPIE.    Where  to? 
SHANKS.    She'll  tell  you. 

(Enter  GRANDMA.^ 

GRANDMA.    What  is  it? 

GILLESPIE.  Minnie  balls — Joe  Shanks  was  mak- 
in'. 

GRANDMA.  Why,  you  tarnation  idiot — I  gave  'em 
to  you  yerself ! 

GILLESPIE.    When  ? 

GRANDMA.    In  that  horse  bucket. 

GILLESPIE.  (Going)  Hell's  bells !  I  packed  'em 
with  the  harness.  (Exit.) 

GRANDMA.  (Calling  after)  Two  bullet  molds 
layin'  on  top  of  'em.  (Going.)  Ye'd  think  the  rebels 
was  ambushin'  'em.  (Exit  after  GILLESPIE.J 

SHANKS.    They're  gettin'  ready. 

ANDREWS.    Yes. 

SHANKS.  Brother  Andrews — see  here.  (Comes 
down  excitedly  and  with  caution.)  You  brought  me 
a  letter  in  March. 

ANDREWS.    Yes,  Milt. 

SHANKS.  (Looks  off  after  LEMJ  Callin'  me 
— East!  ('ANDREWS  nods.)  I  don't  know  if  you 
guessed  what  was  wanted  of  me,  and  my  wife  ain't — 
nur  Joey,  nur  anybody.  Yer  mustn't  hint  it  if  you 
do — not  even  to  me.  (Pause.  ANDREWS  nods.) 
But  I  was  told  down  there  that,  in  a  pinch,  I  could 
turn  ter  you,  and  you'd  take  orders  from  me.  ( AN- 
DREWS nods.)  Lem  Tollard's  gittin'  the  evenin' 
train  fur  St.  Louis — ter  give  warnin'  ter  rebel  troops 
there  in  Camp  Jackson,  that  Union  reinforcements  is 
comin'.  You  kin  beat  him  by  buggy  or  horseback  to 
Mattoon  and  the  regular  Express  from  there  on. 

ANDREWS.    I  understand. 

SHANKS.    At  the  St.  Louis  Arsenal,  the  Union 


32  THE    COPPERHEAD 

troops  air  under  Captain  Lyon — L-y-o-n.  Git  ter 
him  personal.  He'll  know  what  ter  do — whether  ter 
move  faster  hisself  or  jes'  ter  head  off  Lem. 

ANDREWS.    Do  I  say  you  told  me? 

SHANKS.  (Nods)  A  farmer  by  the  name  of 
Shanks.  (Impressively.  A  bugle  blows  assembly.) 

ANDREWS.     I'll  follow  instructions  minutely. 

(Re-enter  SuE.J 

SUE.    Mr.  Shanks — Mr.  Shanks! 
SHANKS.     (Turning)    Yes,  Sue. 
SUE.    Joey  wants  his  other  shirt  and  a  pair  of  sox. 
SHANKS.    What's  the  matter? 
SUE.     The  Company's  going.     He's  going  with 
'em. 

(ANDREWS  exit.) 

SHANKS.  His  shirt  and  sox.  Ma — Ma!  (Anx- 
iously toward  house.  Re-enter  GRANDMA.  A  drum 
heard  in  distance.  SHANKS  stops  and  listens.) 

SUE.    That's  them. 

GRANDMA.  (Heroically)  We're  comin',  Father 
Abraham,  a  hundred  thousand  strong. 

SHANKS.     God  A'mighty!     (Exit.) 

(SuE  runs  to  fence.    Enter  MRS.  BATES. ) 

MRS.  BATES.    Where's  Mrs.  Shanks? 

SUE.    Inside.    I've  told  'em,  Mrs.  Bates. 

MRS.  BATES.  My  Henry's  in  the  Company,  and 
they're  goin'  without  supper.  (Enter  MA.) 

MA.    They're  just  drillin',  ain't  they? 

SUE.  No'm,  they're  really  going,  Mrs.  Shanks. 
Joey  sent  me.  (Enter  SHANKS  with  small  bundle.) 

MRS.  BATES.    Here  they  come.     (Fife  and  drum 


"THE  COPPERHEAD"  See  page  29 

MA:    "Don't  tell  me  everything  I  loved  you  fur  is  dead  in  you?" 


THE    COPPERHEAD  33 

effect,  increasing  with  scene  until  it  finishes  in  song.) 
MA.    Where's  Joey  ?    He  can't  be  with  'em ! 
SUE.     I  can  see  him,  Mrs.  Shanks.     I  see  Joey. 
He's  with  'em.     (SHANKS  goes  into  road  and  looks. 
MA  comes  down  right,  excitedly.) 

MA.  God!  Dear  God!  (Raises  her  hands.) 
GRANDMA.  (With  her)  Yer  his  mother.  Don't 
fergit  that.  Let  him  see  you  givin'  courage  to  him 
as  he  goes  by.  (SHANKS  comes  down  from  road 
and  gives  SUE  the  bundle  for  JOEY;  then  exit  left 
rather  haunted.  Chorus  of  approaching  Company 
breaks  into  "John  Brown's  Body.")  You  nursed 
him  an'  you  brought  him  into  the  world.  Come, 
keep  up  his  heart !  (Takes  MA  up.  GRANDMA  goes 
into  road  and  meets  Company.  The  women  and 
SUE  indicate  approach  of  Company.  The  Company, 
in  rather  irregular  uniforms,  swings  by,  singing; 
GRANDMA  waves  her  apron,  leading  them  in  an  in- 
spired and  symbolic  manner.  SHANKS  sneaks  on 
above  well  and  hides  in  bushes.  Presently  JOEY 
passes;  he  slips  from  line  a  moment  and  kisses  MA, 
then  runs  and  catches  up  his  place.  MA  leans  against 
the  fence  and  the  women  fan  her.  The  scene  may 
be  enlivened  by  old  men  and  children  trailers.) 

(CURTAIN  ON  SONG.) 


ACT  II 

SCENE:  Same  set  as  Act  One,  but  over  two  years 
later.  A  lilac  bush  at  upper  corner  of  house  is 
two  years  larger  but  without  bloom.  The  month 
is  July.  The  back  drop  shows  same  topography 
as  Act  One  but  the  field  is  of  ripening  corn. 
On  the  post  of  the  porch  a  cardboard  shield  of 
the  U.  S.  Arms  is  tacked  in  lieu  of  a  flag. 

TIME:  Twilight,  fading  into  moonlight;  Friday, 
July  3,  1863. 

DISCOVERED:  MA  ironing  by  the  charcoal  furnace. 
Her  ironing  board  is  laid  on  the  backs  of  two 
kitchen  chairs.  There  is  a  basket  of  damp  linen 
and  a  pile  of  ironed  nearly  dry.  The  baby  EL- 
SIE, now  some  three  years  old,  is  on  an  im- 
provised bed  of  chairs,  on  porch,  with  a  piece 
of  "quadrille"  mosquito  net  over  her.  GRAND- 
MA sits  by  knitting  sox. 

MA.    About  time  fur  her  medicine,  ain't  it  ? 

GRANDMA.    I'll  see. 

MA.  You  set  still ;  I'll  see.  (Steps  to  door.)  Yes, 
after  time. 

GRANDMA.  I'll  give  it  to  her.  (Takes  up  from 
floor  a  tumbler  covered  with  a  plate,  holding  a 
spoon.) 

34 


THE   COPPERHEAD  35 

MA.  (Bending  over  bed)  How  is  mammy's  pre- 
cious now  ?  Don't  wake  up,  darling — Grandma  Per- 
ley's  just  gonta  give  it  a  nice  spoonful  of  the  cool 
water 

GRANDMA.  Open  mouffy —  (Gives  medicine.) 
The  angel ! 

MA.  Now,  lay  down,  dear,  and  mammy'll  make 
the  beautiful  house  again.  Keep  out  the  nasty  flies 
and  skeeters.  (Fixes  net.) 

GRANDMA.    Seems  easier. 

MA.     (Resuming  work)    Yes. 

GRANDMA.  Beats  me ;  six  little  sugar  pills  melted 
in  a  tumbler  o'  water —  (Shakes  head.) 

MA.    There's  sumpin'  about  'em. 

GRANDMA.     Don't  allow  'em  in  the  army. 

MA.  Might  be  better  if  they  did.  I  hear  they're 
dyin'  like  flies  in  the  hospitals. 

GRANDMA.  Kain't  believe  all  we  hear,  Martha. 
They  said  Stonewall  Jackson  was  killed  early  in 
May. 

MA.    Well,  wasn't  he? 

GRANDMA.  I  doubt  it.  Six  weeks  has  gone  by 
and  Joe  Hooker  has  hed  to  fall  back;  looks  to  me 
like  that  yarn  about  Jackson  was  jest  to  throw  our 
folks  off  their  guard — and  "shot  by  his  own  men." 

MA.    May  be 

GRANDMA.  Sounds  fishy.  An'  where's  all  the  help 
we  was  gonta  git  from  the  four  million  niggers? — 
'mancipation's  been  out  six  months. 

MA.  Maybe  the  niggers  didn't  git  it — most  of 
'em  kain't  read,  an'  the  Rebs  wouldn't  tell  'em,  would 
they? 

GRANDMA.  P'raps  not — (Pause) — and  Grant! 
Why  ain't  he  stirrin'  hisself?  Sometimes  I  think 
them  yarns  about  his  drinkin's  more  truth  than 
poetry.  Lord — if  I'd  only  been  a  man ! 


36  THE  COPPERHEAD 

MA.  Well,  it's  a  siege,  Joey  says  in  his  letters — 
if  a  man's  ever  been  a  drinkin'  man,  seems  ter  me 
that'd  drive  him  to  it  agin — jest  settin'  an'  settin' 
outside  the  city — waitin'  an'  waitin' — day  in — day 
out —  even  hotter'n  this  place,  too. 

GRANDMA.    Lord  pity  'em! 

MA.    'Cause  that's  the  real  South — Vicksburg  is. 

GRANDMA.  Oughta  be  some  breeze  from  the  river, 
I'd  think. 

MA.    Joey  don't  speak  of  it. 

GRANDMA.    How  long's  it  been  fur  Joey? 

MA.  Two  years  and  two  months  since  he  marched 
past  that  gate. 

GRANDMA.    I  mean  at  Vicksburg? 

MA.  Oh!  'Bout  six  weeks  now — since  the  siege 
begun.  (Pause;  going.)  I  kin  tell  exactly  by  his 
letters.  (Exit.) 

GRANDMA.  Six  weeks  is  near  enough.  (Calls) 
Lord !  I  ain't  timin  bread  in  the  oven  by  it.  (MA 
returns  with  bunch  of  letters  from  the  house.) 

MA.  I  think  this  is  the  one.  (Opens  letter.  Reads 
in  bitter  silence  a  moment.) 

GRANDMA.    (Pause)    What's  the  matter  now  ? 

MA.    (Pause;  shakes  head)    'Bout  his  father. 

GRANDMA.  Well,  don't  let's  git  on  that  subject 
agin. 

MA.  (Studying  letter  and  biting  lip.)  When  the 
news  of  it  got  into  the  army — some  o'  the  men  from 

here  had  papers  with  the  trial  in  'em (Looks 

up  in  agony.)  Joey's  father !  My  baby's  father 

GRANDMA.  Evil  company  kin  bring  any  man 
down,  but  I'll  stake  my  hope  o'  salvation  that  Milt 
Shanks  didn't  do  the  murder. 

MA.  Not  his  fault  if  he  didn't.  He'd  fired  two 
shots — his  revolver  showed  that  at  the  trial. 

GRANDMA.  I  don't  know.  They  didn't  hang  him 
— at  any  rate. 


THE    COPPERHEAD  37 

MA.  What  comfort  kin  Joey  git  from  that  ?  The 
verdict  was  hangin',  and  they'd  a  hung  him  only  the 
governor  committed  all  o'  their  sentences  ter  life  in 
the  penitentiary — life — life — in  the  penitentiary.  We 
knowed  about  it  comin'  from  day  to  day — but  it  was 
a  thunderbolt  to  Joey.  He  says —  (Reads)  "If  I 
could  jes'  put  my  arms  around  you,  mammy " 

GRANDMA.  (Going  to  her)  Now,  quit  that,  Mar- 
tha. You  started  to  find  out  when  Vicksburg  com- 
menced. Lord,  we've  all  got  troubles. 

MA.  (Bracing  up)  I  know —  (With  other  letter.) 
It's  a  lead  pencil,  and  I  can't  make  out  the  writin' 
now — it's  gittin'  so  dark,  besides. 

GRANDMA.    An'  yer  tuckered  out  with  yer  ironin'. 

MA.  Only  my  back — it'll  ease  up  when  I  lay 
down. 

(Enter  MRS.  BATES  and  SUE  to  back  of  fence.) 

MRS.  BATES.  (Calling)  Good  evening.  (MA 
runs  to  bed  and  sings  lullaby — "Old  Dog  Tray") 

GRANDMA.     (Signals  silence)    The  child's  asleep. 

MRS.  BATES.    Sorry. 

GRANDMA.  All  right,  I  guess.  (Enter  MRS.  BATES 
to  yard.  Enter  SUE;  she  carries  a  tin  lantern,  un- 
lighted.) 

MRS.  BATES.  I  brought  some  rennet  fur  her. 
(MA  nods  thanks.) 

GRANDMA.    That's  good. 

SUE.    We're  goin'  down  to  the  church. 

GRANDMA.    Why  ? 

MRS.  BATES.    Fixin'  the  booths  fur  to-morrow. 

MA.  (Joining  them)  I'm  so  sorry  I  can't  go 
along  and  help. 

MRS.  BATES.    Lord  knows  you  got  yer  hands  full. 

GRANDMA.    Ain't  hed  her  supper. 

MRS.  BATES.    What! 


38  THE  COPPERHEAD 

MA.    It's  too  hot  fur  supper. 

GRANDMA.    (To  MA)    Where's  yer  tea  kettle? 

MA.    I've  got  cold  tea. 

SUE.    Let  me  git  it,  Mrs.  Shanks. 

MA.  It's  in  the  well — I'll  get  some  glasses. 
(Starts.) 

GRANDMA.  You'll  set  still.  I'll  git  the  glasses. 
(Puts  her  in  chair.  Exit.  SUE  goes  to  well.  A 
little  cry  from  the  bed.) 

MA.  (Resigned)  I  guess  she's  waking.  (Gets 
ELSIE.  ) 

SUE.    Did  we  wake  her,  do  you  'spose  ? 

MA.  She's  slept  a  good  while,  anyway.  (Re- 
enter  GRANDMA  with  glasses,  glass  sugar  bowl, 
brown  sugar  and  spoons.) 

MA.  Come,  dearie,  Auntie  Bates  brought  Elsie, 
oh,  such  good  supper.  Mother'll  hold  her  little  girl 
on  her  lap  while  she  eats  it.  (MA  sits  at  ironing 
board  and  feeds  ELSIE.  MRS.  BATES  stands.  SUE 
brings  tea  from  well.) 

GRANDMA.  (Slyly  indicating'  ELSIEJ  It's  a  good 
plan  to  change  the  subject  now — we  git  on  better 

when  you  don't  notice  us How  many  booths 

you  got?     (Pours  tea.) 

MRS.  BATES.    Oh,  a  dozen,  I  should  think. 

SUE.  If  we  can  get  dolls  enough  by  to-morrow 
we're  going  to  have  the  old  woman  that  lived  in  a 
shoe. 

GRANDMA.    Have  what? 

MRS.  BATES.  The  S'Louis  papers  say  at  their  fair 
Nellie  Grant,  the  Gineral's  little  dotter,  was  the  old 
woman — a  shoe  as  big  as  Elsie's  bed  for  her  house 
and  dozens  of  dolls  all  over  it. 

GRANDMA.    How  old's  Grant's  dotter? 

MRS.  BATES.    Only  three  or  four. 

GRANDMA.  Well,  don't  that  beat  the  Dutch.  I'll 
bet  it  took  like  hot  cakes. 


THE  COPPERHEAD  39 

MA.  (Coaxingly)  Not  here,  dearie — that's  way 
off  where  the  sun  goes  to  bed  and  hot  cakes  ain't 
near  so  nice  as  Auntie  Bates'  custard. 

GRANDMA.    Little  pitchers  have  big  ears. 

(Enter  ANDREWS  from  left  at  back.) 

MA.    There's  Brother  Andrews. 

GRANDMA.  A  minute  later'n  he'd  a  caught  me 
smokin'. 

MRS.  BATES.    Good  evening. 

ANDREWS.    Good  evening — may  I  come  in? 

MA.  Of  course — yer  always  welcome,  Mr.  An- 
drews. (ANDREWS  enters  yard.  He  shows  elation.) 

ANDREWS.  There's  some  wonderful  news  on  the 
telegraph  wires. 

GRANDMA.  What  is  it?  (M\  and  MRS.  BATES 
chorus  "Tell  us"— and  "Good  news?") 

ANDREWS.    Vicksburg's  surrendered. 

SUE.  I  fHooray ! 

MA.  >  ( Together)  W  Thank  God ! 

MRS.  BATES.  J  (.Oh,    Mr.    Andrews ! 


(The    twilight    goes  into  moonlight.) 

GRANDMA.    God  bless  ole  Grant. 

ANDREWS.  (Fervently)  Amen — amen,  Sister 
Perley. 

MA.    (Pause)    And — Joey,  too 

ANDREWS.  Yes,  Joey,  too,  and  all  our  brave  boys 
in  blue.  The  news  comes  pretty  direct  altho*  it 
hasn't  been  officially  confirmed. 

GRANDMA.  Then  hold  on,  don't  count  your 
chickens  too  soon. 

ANDREWS.    Oh,  I  believe  it's  true — true. 

MRS.  BATES.    Why,  Brother  Andrews? 

ANDREWS.  I've  expected  it  right  along.  The 
prisoners  that  have  been  passing  through  here  give 
awful  reports  of  their  starvation  in  Vicksburg — 


40  THE    COPPERHEAD 

eating  dogs — anything — and  just  to  think  of  the 
glorious  way  it  comes — to-morrow  will  be  the  Fourth 
of  July  and,  praise  be  to  God,  we've  our  bell  for 
the  meeting  house. 

GRANDMA.    The  bell's  come? 

ANDREWS.  Come?  Why,  it's  up  in  the  belfry, 
Sister  Perley.  Some  folks  want  us  to  ring  it  every 
day  for  twelve  o'clock,  but  we'll  begin  with  the 
Sunday  service  and  the  Wednesday  prayer  meetings, 
except,  of  course,  if  this  surrender's  true  we'll  ring 
in  the  glorious  Fourth. 

MA.    And  maybe  Joey  kin  git  a  furlough  now. 

ANDREWS.    Of  course  he'll  git  a  furlough. 

MA.  (To  ELSIEJ  Buvver  Joey  comin'  home  to 
Elsie  and  Muzzer. 

GRANDMA.  The  news  makes  us  all  fergit  our 
manners — will  you  hev  some  cold  tea,  Brother  An- 
drews ? 

ANDREWS.     (Hesitates)     Why 

SUE.    Right  out  of  the  well — awfully  good. 

ANDREWS.    Thank  you — yes. 

MA.    You're  sure  they'll  let  him  come  ? 

ANDREWS.  Positive.  After  that  splendid  brav- 
ery in  recovering  the  flag. 

GRANDMA.    What  was  that,  Brother  Andrews? 

ANDREWS.  In  one  of  the  Rebels'  attempts  to 
break  through  a  Union  color  bearer  was  struck — 
Joey  not  only  supported  the  man  but  kept  the  flag 
flying,  too —  Didn't  you  know  of  it? 

MA.  Well,  not  so  fine  as  that — one  o'  Joey's  let- 
ters said — "Jim  Evers  was  hit  with  a  bay'net  while 
he  was  carryin'  our  flag  and  I  was  so  close  to  him 

that  I  caught  him  when  he  fell  over "  That's 

jes'  seemed  natural  kindness. 

ANDREWS.  Caught  him!  Why,  Joe  fought  like 
a  wildcat. 

SUE.    Joey ! 


THE    COPPERHEAD  41 

MRS.  BATES.    Well!    Well! 

GRANDMA.  I'm  ready  to  believe  it,  'cause  at  Fort 
Dearborn  the  dare  devils  was  always  the  boys. 

MA.    Who  told  you  about  it,  Brother  Andrews? 

ANDREWS.  Why — well — it's  a  little  embarrassing 
— but  Joey's  father  told  me. 

MA.    His  father? 

GRANDMA.  ('Discounting  it)  Oh !  (MRS.  BATES 
and  SUE  relax  also.) 

MA.  (Pause)  I  thought  maybe  you'd  got  it 
straighter'n  that.  I  guess  Joey's  letter's  about  right. 

ANDREWS.  And  then  again  when  General  Grant 
was  holding  a  council  of  war  with  Admiral  Porter 
on  a  gunboat  in  the  river — the  Rebels  knew  it  some- 
how and  made  a  sally.  Joey  swam  out  to  the  boat 
and  carried  the  news  to  Grant — Grant  hustled  back 
in  his  skiff  and  rallied  our  men,  who  were  retreating. 
Grant  sent  for  Joey  the  next  day  and  made  a  world 
of  fuss  over  him Yes,  indeed. 

MA.    Did  you  git  all  that  from  his  father,  too  ? 

ANDREWS.    Well — yes. 

GRANDMA.    'M.     (The  women  again  go  cold.) 

SUE.  (Pause)  Well,  Joey's  spunky,  jest  the 
same. 

MRS.  BATES.  (Pause)  Sue  and  I  were  just  goin' 
down  to  the  church — are  there  many  there? 

ANDREWS.    Oh,  yes. 

SUE.  (Suddenly)  Oh — we've  settled  about  the 
rebel  states,  Mrs.  Shanks. 

GRANDMA.     How ! 

SUE.  Well,  you  see,  I'm  on  the  platform  as  the 
Goddess  of  Liberty — and  I  say  like  this :  (Recites) 

"Within  the  field  of  blue  a  cloud  I  see, 
The  lightnings  threaten  over  Liberty, 
My  daughters,  come !  Ye  thirteen  brave  I  bore — 
And  come,  ye  younger,  making  thirty-four." 
(Breaks.) 


42  THE    COPPERHEAD 

'Cause  there's  thirty- four  states  altogether — then 
these  dear  little  girls — thirteen  walkin'  two  and  two 
— six  couples  an'  then  single  that  cute  baby  of  Mrs. 
Ransom's,  hardly  bigger'n  Elsie — she's  Rhode  Is- 
land. Then  the  other  states  accordin'  to  their  dates 
of  admission,  all  with  blue  sashes,  except  the  rebel 
states,  wherever  they  are,  have  red  sashes — and 
don't  you  think  this  is  too  beautiful? — heavy  bands 
of  smoke-colored  tulle  blindfoldin'  their  eyes,  mean- 
in'  error.  These  darlin's  !  None  of  'em  over  ten ! 
Why,  I  jest  cried  at  rehearsal. 

GRANDMA.  Well — I'm  comin'  to  see  you  if  I'm 

able  to  walk.  You  git  me  a  ticket What  are 

they,  Mrs.  Bates? 

MRS.  BATES.  Two  bits.  (GRANDMA  gets  shin 
plaster  pocketbook  and  produces  twenty-five  cents.) 
Thank  you.  (Stows  the  paper  in  similar  book.) 
Come,  Sue,  we're  awfully  late  now. 

MA.  Elsie  thanks  you  for  her  supper,  Auntie 
Bates. 

MRS.  BATES.  She  shall  have  more  to-morrow 

Good-by.  ( Exit  with  SUE.) 

GRANDMA.    Good-night. 

MA.  Why  do  yo'  'spose  Milt  wanted  ter  make  up 
that  ridiculous  stuff  about  Joey? 

ANDREWS.  It's  true — every  word  of  it.  Grant 
wanted  to  know  what  he  could  do  for  Joey — well, 
one  way  and  another  the  dear  boy  told  him  every- 
thing— and  on  Joey's  account  Milt  has  been  par- 
doned, Mrs.  Shanks. 

MA.    (Pause)    Pardoned ! 

ANDREWS.    Pardoned 

MA.  (Prompting)  You  mean  from  hangin' — to 
penitentiary  for  life. 

ANDREWS.  (Shakes  head)  That  was  done  at  the 
time  of  their  conviction — for  the  whole  band — but 
Milt  has  been  set  free. 


THE    COPPERHEAD  43 

MA.    How  do  you  know — who  told  you? 

ANDREWS.    Milt  told  me. 

MA.     In  the  prison? 

ANDREWS.    Here — Milt's  back  in  town. 

MA.    He's  foolin'  you.    He's  broke  out,  ain't  he? 

ANDREWS.  Pardoned — by  the  Governor — I've 
seen  his  papers.  (MA  gives  ELSIE  to  GRANDMA.,) 

MA.  In  town?  (ANDREWS  nods.  MA  gets  up — 
walks  nervously — stops.  Pause.)  It's  time  Elsie 
was  in  bed — will  you  undress  her,  Mrs.  Perley — I've 
got  to  talk  to  Brother  Andrews  alone. 

GRANDMA.  Come  with  grandma,  darlin',  an'  she'll 
tell  you  about  the  fairies.  (Takes  ELSIE  to  porch.) 

MA.  I'll  bring  her  medicine  when  it's  time.  (Exit 
GRANDMA  with  ELSIE.  Pause.)  Where  is  he — 


now 


ANDREWS.    Waiting  for  me. 

MA.    Why? 

ANDREWS.    For  some  message  from — his  wife. 

MA.    Am  I  his  wife  in  the  eyes  o'  Gawd? 

ANDREWS.    Aren't  you  ?    For  better — for  worse — 

MA.  It's  the  law  in  Illinois  when  a  man's  con- 
victed of  murder  it  sets  his  wife  free. 

ANDREWS.    Do  you  ask  to  be  free  ? 

MA.  I  don't  ask  anything  any  more  fur  myself, 
Brother  Andrews.  (A  candle  is  lighted  inside  the 
house.) 

ANDREWS.  Well,  it  won't  help  Milt  to  cast  him 
off,  will  it? 

MA.     I'm  thinkin'  about  the  children  and — I  ask 

ANDREWS.  If  you  ask  me — you'll  send  word  to 
your  husband  to  come  home. 

MA.  (Pause)  Home (Pause.)  What  if 

Joey's  here  on  his  furlough?  What  then? 

ANDREWS.  I  wish  you  might  have  seen  Milt's 
face  when  he  told  me  of  Joey's  bravery. 


44  THE    COPPERHEAD 

MA.  I'm  thinkin'  what  Joey's  face  must  a 
been  when  he  wrote  me  the  letters  after  his  father's 

trial  reached  the  army (Shakes  head.)  I  know 

why  Joey  was  willin'  to  swim  out  to  a  gunboat — or 
foller  Jim  Evers  and  his  flag  in  the  front  ranks — 
his  letter  says — "Don't  you  never  shed  a  tear  fur 
me,  mammy — if  it — comes  to — me."  My  Gawd! 
Think  of  a  boy  of  nineteen  writin'  that-a-way! 

ANDREWS.  He'll  feel  different,  now,  when  he 
comes  to  know  that  his  heroism  gives  his  father  an- 
other chance  at  life — let  me  tell  Milt  to  come  home. 

MA.    (Pause)    I'll  see  him. 

ANDREWS.    Good. 

MA.  But  I'll  have  to  git  used  to  the  notion  of  it 
some — before  I'll  say  jest  what  I  will  do — one  way 
or  the  other — (Pause.)  I'm  gonna  kneel  down  by 
my  baby's  bed  an'  ask  Gawd.  (Distant  gun.  MA 
sits  on  the  ironing  chair,  with  her  head  bent  to  her 
knees,  and  buries  her  face  in  her  hands.  A  country 
band  strikes  up  in  the  distance,  "Rally  Round  the 
Flag.") 

ANDREWS.  (Pause)  The  news  is  confirmed,  I 
guess.  (Goes  to  MA.)  Come,  Martha — God's  doing 
it  all  his  way — we  can't  be  downhearted  about  any- 
thing. (MA  rises  and,  slowly  nodding,  exit.  AN- 
DREWS watches  her  off,  then  wipes  his  forehead  and 
puts  on  his  hat.  He  slowly  turns  to  go.  The  vil- 
lage band  still  plays.  He  stops  at  sight  of  somebody. 
It  is  SHANKS.  SHANKS  enters,  left,  behind  fence. 
SHANKS  shows  more  than  three  years'  added  age — 
his  hair  is  perceptibly  gray — and  he  is  more  worn  in 
body.) 

SHANKS.    Well? 

ANDREWS.  She'll  see  you.  (SHANKS  crosses  to- 
ward house.  Pause.) 

SHANKS.    She's  kneelin'  by  the  bed. 


THE    COPPERHEAD  45 

ANDREWS.  One  minute.  (Looks  down  the  road 
cautiously.  Returns.)  I've  a  letter  for  you. 

SHANKS.    From  her? 

ANDREWS.  From  Washington — I  didn't  even 
mention  it  to  you  in  the  village  because — it  didn't 
seem  safe.  (Hands  letter.) 

SHANKS.  You  might  jes'  stand  at  the  gate.  (AN- 
DREWS stands  watch.  SHANKS  opens  letter  and  reads 
by  the  light  from  the  door.  He  puts  letter  in  pocket. 
ANDREWS  returns.)  I'm  ordered  to  Pennsylvania. 
(Pause.)  What's  been  going  on  there? — we  didn't 
git  much  news  in  Joliet. 

ANDREWS.  Hooker  has  succeeded  Rosecrans  in 

command — but  Lee's  driven  him  back (Pause.) 

Harper's  Ferry's  been  taken  by  Lee — things  gener- 
ally pretty  gloomy. 

SHANKS.  My  letter  hints  there's  some  under- 
ground leak — through  this  crowd  I'm  with.  (Hand 
goes  to  lapel.)  They  took  our  buttons  away  from 
us  in  jail. 

ANDREWS.  (Ominously)  'Twouldn't  be  safe  to 
wear  one  now. 

SHANKS.  I  reckon  not — I  didn't  feel  very  safe 
even  without  mine — down  there  to-night. 

ANDREWS.    The  county  is  very  bitter. 

SHANKS.  Whata  they  say  about  me  bein'  par- 
doned and  Lem  Tollard  kept  in  for  life? 

ANDREWS.    Very  few  of  them  know  it  yet. 

SHANKS.  It's  gonna  make  it  hard  in  Pennsyl- 
vania, I  cahilate. 

ANDREWS.     Joey's  good  work  should  explain  it. 

SHANKS.  Maybe.  (Pause.)  Tollard  ain't  a  mur- 
derer in  heart — fa'ct  none  of  'em — jes'  wrong-headed 
— an'  war's  war — (Pause.)  If  anything  happens  to 
me — Brother  Andrews — I  mean — permanent 

ANDREWS.    I  understand,  Milt. 

SHANKS.      Why,    then — I'd    like    her    to    really 


46  THE    COPPERHEAD 

know — (ANDREWS  nods.)  She's  fine.  (Pause.) 

Mighty  fine — like  the  wonderful  women  that 

(Pause — chews — wipes  nose.)  An'  the  back  wash 
of  it  when  she  knows  why— and  every thing'll  be 
twice  as  hard  'cause  she's  awful  tender-hearted — so 
make  her  understand  that  I  sensed  all  of  it  and  was 
proud  she  done  her  part  this  way 

ANDREWS.    I  shall. 

SHANKS.  Show  her  that  ef  she  hadn't  suffered 
and  suffered  plenty — my  work  wouldn't  a  looked 
gen-u-ine. 

ANDREWS.    She'll  know. 

SHANKS.  And  Joey (ANDREWS  nods.)  Tell 

her  'twas  really  me  that  got  word  to  Grant  at  Co- 
lumbus, Kentucky,  that  Van  Dorn  was  behind  him, 
an'  saved  thousands  o'  Union  lives — like  as  not 
Joey's  amongst  the  lot.  (M.A  comes  from  house — 
peering  into  the  lesser  light.) 

ANDREWS.    Well,  good-night. 

MA.    You,  Brother  Andrews? 

ANDREWS.    Yes,  Martha. 

SHANKS.    An'  me.    (General  pause.) 

ANDREWS.  I'm  just  going —  Good-night,  Milt. 
(Affectionately  pats  his  shoulder  and  goes.  At  in- 
tervals from  now  on  a  small  cannon  fires  salutes.) 

MA.     (Pause)    Yer  pardoned? 

SHANKS.    Yes — by  the  Governor. 

MA.  (Points  after  ANDREWS  j  He  says  'count 
o'  Joey. 

SHANKS.    Yes. 

MA.  Well Don't  that  mortify  you  com- 
pletely? 

SHANKS.  'Twould  if  I  didn't  believe  Joey'd  un- 
derstand my  side  of  it — some  day. 

MA.    Your  side  was  Peace — wasn't  it  ? 

SHANKS.    As  fur  as  I  could  make  it — yes. 


THE   COPPERHEAD  47 

MA.  Yer  empty  revolver  showed  two  of  the  shots 
was  by  you. 

SHANKS.  I  pinted  over  their  heads — besides,  I 
know  I  didn't  hit  anybody. 

MA.    You  didn't  tell  that  at  yer  trial,  did  ye? 

SHANKS.  What  use?  And  then  I  couldn't  strive 
to  throw  all  the  blame  onto  Lem  and  the  others. 

MA.    Yer  doin'  it  now,  ain't  you? 

SHANKS.  I  reckon  I  am — come  to  think  of  it — 
but (Pause.) 

MA.  (Pause)  But  what?  Ef  you've  got  any- 
thing to  say  fur  yerself — fur  Gawd's  sake,  Milt 

SHANKS.  I'm  doin'  it  now  'cause  I  care  more  fur 
what  you  think  about  my  bein*  a  murderer,  Martha 
' — than  what  the  law  court  thought 

MA.    I'd  like  ter  believe  ye,  Milt. 

SHANKS.    If  ye  could — it'd  be  mighty  fine. 

MA.    Ye've  been  untruthful  so  often. 

SHANKS.    Ter  you,  Martha? 

MA.  Yes,  to  me — about  nearly  every  trip  you 
made  after  you  turned  copperhead  somethin'  didn't 
gee.  Where  was  you  and  Lem  Tollard  an'  yer 
crowd  takin'  them  stolen  horses? 

SHANKS.    Kentucky. 

MA.  For  rebel  guerrillas,  if  the  truth's  known, 
wasn't  it? 

SHANKS.     (Nods)     Confederate  cavalry — yes. 

MA.  And  when  the  Sheriff's  posse  headed  you  off 
• — you  killed  two  of  'em. 

SHANKS.    (Shakes  head)    Our  crowd — not  me. 

MA.  Am  I  to  try  an'  make  neighbors  believe 
that? 

SHANKS.  My  God — no — no (Pause.)  I  ain't 

talkin'  fur  the  neighbors — besides,  they  won't  be 
neighbors  o'  mine. 

MA.    They  won't 

SHANKS.    I  cahilate  ter  go  East  in  a  day  or  so — 


48  THE   COPPERHEAD 

an'  git  work  when  the  harvestin'  begins — the  war's 
made  farm  hands  scarce — folks  say. 

MA.    East?    (SHANKS  nods.)    Fur  good? 

SHANKS.    Well — while  the  war's  on,  anyway. 

MA.    And  after  the  war? 

SHANKS.  I  hope  ter  be  near  you — (Pause) — and 
the  children — ef  I  kin. 

MA.    (Pause)    Have  you  hed  yer  supper  ? 

SHANKS.  Yes,  thank  you.  I'd  like  a  drink, 
though.  (Moves  to  well.) 

MA.     Here's  tea — and  it's  been  cold. 

SHANKS.  Thank  you.  (Returns,  takes  tea.) 
How's  Elsie? 

MA.  Ailin'  some — the  heat  and  the  flies — but  she 
made  a  good  supper — and  is  sleepin'. 

SHANKS.    Would  it  wake  her  if  I — looked  at  her? 

MA.  No — talkin'  would — an'  ye  better  wait  till 
Grandma  Perley  comes  out. 

SHANKS.    What  d'ye  hear  from  Joey  ? 

MA.  Here's  his  letters (Sorts  them.) 

'Twould  do  you  no  good  to  read  these (Lays 

them  aside.) 

SHANKS.    Where's  the  last  one? 

MA.  (Handing  letter)  I'll  get  Grandma  Perley 
out  the  other  way.  (Exit.  SHANKS  watches  her 
off — drinks  tea  from  bucket — opens  a  letter  and 
reads.  The  village  bell  tolls  distantly.  SHANKS 
adjusts  himself  to  the  novelty  and  resumes  reading. 
The  sound  of  a  cantering  horse  approaches — MILT 
moves  from  light  to  shadow.  SAM  CARTER,  a  sol- 
dier, rides  on  and  stops  back  of  fence,  pauses,  dis- 
mounts and  ties.  Soldier  enters  yard  to  light — calls 
into  house.) 

SAM.     (Calls)     Hello ! 

SHANKS.    (Speaks)     Good-evening. 

SAM.    (Inquiring)    Shanks? 


THE    COPPERHEAD  49 

SHANKS.  (Into  light  again)  Hello,  Sam.  (A 
distant  gun.) 

SAM.  (Pause — nodding  off)  That's  fur  Vicks- 
burg's  surrender. 

SHANKS.    Yes. 

SAM.    What  are  you  doin' — round  here? 

SHANKS.    Well — I  have  been  away,  but 

SAM.  (Pause)  In  trouble — we  heard,  in  the 
army. 

SHANKS.  Yes — considerable — but,  somehow — 
'count  Joey  doin'  so  well — I — I — was — released 

SAM.  He  did  do  well (Awkwardly.)  Come 

up  by  the  gate.  (They  go  up.)  Whoa,  boy — Whoa ! 
(Goes  to  horse.) 

SHANKS.    Where  air  you  from  now  ? 

SAM.  Vicksburg — but  I  left  there  two  days  ago 
with  some  prisoners  and  wounded — steamer  Forest 
Queen  to  Cairo.  When  did  you  hear  from  Joe? 

SHANKS.    (Down  with  letter  to  light)    Last  week. 

SAM.    How  was  Joe? 

SHANKS.  (Reading)  All  right — an'  mighty 
hopeful  about  Grant's  winnin'. 

SAM.    Joe — Joe's  dead. 

SHANKS.  Dead !  (Looks  slowly  at  letter  and 
back.) 

SAM.    Yes — awful  sorry. 

SHANKS.    Who  told  you  so? 

SAM.     I  saw  him. 

SHANKS.    Saw  him — killed? 

SAM.    No — but  afterwards — in  his  coffin. 

SHANKS.    You  mean — they  buried  him? 

SAM.  We  fetched  his  body  home  on  our  boat  to 
Cairo — and  box  car  over  here. 

SHANKS.  Kain't  be  no  mistake?  Joseph  Taylor 
Shanks  ? 

SAM.     (Nods)     Son  o'  Milton  Shanks. 


50  THE   COPPERHEAD 

SHANKS.  (Nods  helplessly)  That's  right.  (Re- 
enter  MA.) 

MA.    Yer  kin  come  in  now,  but  walk  on  yer  toes. 

SHANKS.    Sam  Carter's  here 

MA.    Oh How  are  you,  Sam? 

SAM.    Good-evening. 

SHANKS.    with  bad  news,  Martha. 

MA.     (Quickly)    Bad  news!    From  Joey? 

SHANKS.    Yes. 

MA.  Give  me  the  letter.  (Takes  letter  quickly 
from  MILT.) 

SHANKS.  That's  the  one  you  gave  me — Joey — 

couldn't  write  hisself My  God,  Martha,  it's 

terrible (Cannon — bell.  The  village  band  plays 

"When  Johnnie  comes  Marching  Home") 

MA.    Terrible?    Hurt  bad? 

SAM.    He's  dead,  Mrs.  Shanks. 

MA.  Oh,  Gawd!  Oh,  Gawd! (Crosses,  in 

agony  to  corner  of  well — falls,  kneeling  on  it — she 
sobs  a  bit,  then,  realising  that  JOEY  had  that  place 
before  he  went  away,  she  caresses  the  curb  and 
-weeps.) 

SAM.  (After  pause)  Yer  oughta  say  somethin' 
to  her. 

SHANKS.  Joey  wouldn't  want  ye  ter  do  that,  Ma. 
(Bends  over  her.) 

MA.  (Shrinking  from  him)  Fer  Gawd's  sake, 
Milt  Shanks — don't  tetch  me — yer  unclean — yer  un- 
clean   (She  rises.  She  presses  JOE'S  letter 

against  her  face  and  so,  sobbing,  crosses  to  ironing 
board,  gets  other  letters,  and  exit.) 

SHANKS.    (Pause)    You  said — in  a  box  car. 

SAM.    Unloaded — in  the  depot  now. 

SHANKS.     I'll  go  there.     (Starts.) 

SAM.    (Interposes)    I  wouldn't,  Milt. 

SHANKS.    Why  not? 


THE  COPPERHEAD  51 

SAM.  Newt  Gillespie's  with  it — he's  wounded, 
himself,  slightly. 

SHANKS.  Well — 'twont  hurt  fur  me  to  be  there, 
too — by  his  coffin 

SAM.  'T won't  be  pleasant,  'cause  that's  one  rea- 
son Newt  come  along.  'Fore  he  died,  Joe  said, 
"Don't  let  my  father  see  me — even  in  my  coffin." 
Boy  was  kinda  feverish  but  Newt  takes  it  serious — 
and  Newt  wouldn't  'low  you  even  if  you  went  there. 
(He  mounts.)  My  advice  is  to  take  it  comfortable 
as  you  kin.  (SAM  rides  off.  SHANKS  watches  him 
off — looks  at  sky — comes  into  light — looks  painfully 
into  house — stands  irresolute — goes  into  road  with 
intention  of  going  to  JOEY — feels  the  pull  of  the 
stricken  wife — stops — returns  into  light  and  is  look- 
ing into  house.  In  distance,  "Johnny  Comes  March- 
ing Home.") 

(CURTAIN.) 


CHARACTERS  IN  PART  TWO 

MILTON  SHANKS Aged  78 

MADELINE  KING,  his  granddaughter 22 

PHILIP  MANNING  28 

MRS.  MANNING , 48 

COL.  HARDY   76 

DR.  RANDALL , 34 

NEWT  GILLESPIE  78 

LEM  TOLLARD , . .  78 


PART  II 
ACT  III 

SCENE:  Set  same  as  preceding  acts  but  showing 
lapse  of  forty  years  and  some  improvement  by 
money.  The  lilac  bush  is  now  tall  as  the  house 
and  is  in  bloom — spring  flowers  in  beds.  The 
ground  cloth  has  become  a  lawn.  The  well- 
sweep  is  replaced  by  super-structure  and  pulley 
wheel.  Small  trees  are  big.  Vines  cover  the 
porch.  The  cornfield  suggests  Villa  acreage  in- 
stead. There  is  a  picket  fence  where  the  rails 
were.  Lawn  furniture. 

DISCOVERED:  Empty  stage.  Piano  heard.  Enter 
SHANKS — aged  seventy-six — white-haired  and 
bowed.  He  is  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  He  crosses 
up  to  gate — goes  outside,  and  examines  R.F.D. 
box.  Opens  letter — to  himself,  reads.  Consults 
watch.  The  song  stops. 

SHANKS.     (Calls)     Some  letters  fur  you,  dearie. 

MADELINE.     (Off)     From  Boston? 

SHANKS.  One  is.  (Enter  MADELINE.  This  part 
is  for  the  same  actress  who  does  MA  in  Acts  One 
and  Two — but  with  complete  change  of  character 
from  drudge  woman  to  bright  girl  and  from  dark 
hair  to  blonde.) 

MADELINE.     Big  envelope? 

SHANKS.    (Hands  mail)    Yes. 
53 


54  THE  COPPERHEAD 

MADELINE.  (Showing  contents  of  letter)  A  copy 
of  my  certificate,  Grandpa. 

SHANKS.     (Brightly)     From  the  Normal? 

MADELINE.  Yes.  That  ought  to  satisfy  the  board, 
hadn't  it? 

SHANKS.     (Smiles)     Some. 

MADELINE.    What's  the  best  way  to  present  it? 

SHANKS.  One  way's  ter  send  it  or  take  it  to 
their  meetin'  to-night — other  way  is  take  it  round 
this  afternoon  to  the  separate  members. 

MADELINE.    I  could  do  both. 

SHANKS.    'Course  ye  could. 

MADELINE.  (In  delight)  Oh !  If  I  get  it,  Grand- 
pa  

SHANKS.  You  ain't  jes*  sayin'  that  'cause  it 
tickles  me — air  ye? 

MADELINE.  No,  indeed — why,  look  around  us — 
no  grain  elevators — no  noisy  railroad  yards — no  cob- 
ble stones — and  sixty  dollars  a  month,  here,  is  as 
good  as  eighty  in  the  city — and  maybe  I'd  get  some 
singing,  too. 

SHANKS.  Wouldn't  count  on  that  for  money. 
Lemme  see  yer  certificate (Takes  it — MADE- 
LINE opens  other  letters — is  earnest  over  one. 
Pause.)  I've  got  to  go  to  the  village — I  kin  show 
this  to  some  of  'em. 

MADELINE.    The  village  ?    Why  ? 

SHANKS.  There's  a  man  I  want  ter  see  comin'  in 
on  the  train — or  you  could  go  along,  too. 

MADELINE.     (Shakes  head)    My  doctor's  coming. 

SHANKS.    Yer  doctor? 

MADELINE.  The  specialist — that  treated  my  throat 
last  winter. 

SHANKS.  (Frightened)  Why,  darlin' — ye  ain't 
ailin'  agin? 

MADELINE.      (Affectionately.     Lavghs   and   pets 


THE    COPPERHEAD  55 

him.)  No,  Grandpa — a  friendly  visit.  He's  down 
this  way  on  another  call,  he  says. 

SHANKS.  Doctors  unsettle  me.  An'  I  don't  want 
any  o'  their  blamed  experiments  on  th'  only  treasure 
God  A'mighty's  spared  me — no. 

MADELINE.  I  don't  need  one — I  never  will  down 
here.  It's  only  the  soft  coal  in  the  city ! 

SHANKS.  (With  certificate)  I'll  go  in  Philip 
Manning's  office  with  this  and  ask  him  to  tell  his 
mother  about  it. 

MADELINE.  We  can  wait  until  the  meeting  for 
Mrs.  Manning — she's  for  me,  of  course. 

SHANKS.  But  maybe  this'll  give  her  a  chance  to 
pull  some  wires  this  afternoon. 

MADELINE.    That's  so. 

SHANKS.  And  give  Philip  a  chance.  He  ain't  on 
the  board,  but  he's  a  power  jest  the  same. 

MADELINE.    You  bet. 

SHANKS.  You  know,  Maddy,  I  sicked  Philip  into 
politics. 

MADELINE.    Yes,  I  know. 

SHANKS.     D'  I  ever  tell  you  that? 

MADELINE.    Often,  Grandpa,  yes. 

SHANKS.  Years  ago,  in  a  town  meetin' — he  stud 
up  and  said  sumpin' — I  fergit  what  it  was — an'  I 

sent  fur  him Jest  a  slip  of  a  boy  no  older  than 

yer  Uncle  Joey  was.  I  said — "Young  man,  if  you 
take  an'  ole  feller's  advice  you'll  go  inter  politicks 
— you  got  everything  fur  it — voice  and  hair — blue 
eyes" — an'  now,  by  Jim-min-nee,  he's  in  the  legisla- 
ture— I  know  it (Enter  PHILIP  and  MRS.  MAN- 
NING, left,  behind  fence.) 

PHILIP.    Good-afternoon. 

MADELINE.  (Very  pleased)  Oh How-de- 
do. 

SHANKS.  Why,  Philip — jest  talkin'  about  you — 
afternoon,  Mrs.  Manning. 


56  THE    COPPERHEAD 

MRS.  MANNING.    Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Shanks. 

MADELINE.    My  certificate  has  come  from  Boston. 

MRS.  MANNING.    Good. 

MADELINE.    Come  in. 

PHILIP.    We're  on  our  way  to  Colonel  Hardy's. 

MADELINE.    Just  a  minute — your  coat,  Grandpa. 

PHILIP.  Nonsense — never  mind  your  coat,  Mr. 
Shanks. 

SHANKS.  (On  porch)  Got  to  go  to  the  village, 
anyway.  (Exit.  MRS.  MANNING  and  PHILIP  come 
through  gate.) 

MRS.  MANNING.  (With  certificate)  This  com- 
pletes our  hand.  I'll  make  a  motion  that  applicants 
for  the  position  of  teacher  must  show  a  normal 
school  certificate.  That  will  dispose  of  Mrs.  Simp- 
son. 

PHILIP.  Yes,  mother,  if  the  motion  passes — but 
we  want  to  be  sure.  Hardy's  our  man  to  see.  (Re- 
enter  SHANKS  with  coat  on.) 

MRS.  MANNING.  Why  Colonel  Hardy  so  import- 
antly ?  He  isn't  on  the  board. 

PHILIP.  But  as  president  of  the  village  he  ap- 
points the  board — and  the  majority  will  want  to 
please  him.  Politics  every  time. 

SHANKS.  Hardy — Hardy's  a  stiff-necked  feller 
— allers  was. 

MRS.  MANNING.  Don't  you  like  Colonel  Hardy, 
Mr.  Shanks? 

SHANKS.    I  do — but  Hardy  ain't  very  friendly. 

PHILIP.  Then  all  the  more  reason  for  us  to  see 
him. 

MRS.  MANNING.  Do  you  think  he'd  favor  Mrs. 
Simpson  for  the  place  ? 

SHANKS.  Well,  you  see — she's  a  widder  and  her 
father's  a  Grand  Army  man — Hardy's  a  Grand 
Army  man,  too. 

PHILIP.    That's  so. 


THE    COPPERHEAD  57 

MRS.  MANNING.  Her  old  father's  one  of  my  ob- 
jections to  Mrs.  Simpson.  I'm  a  great  believer  in 
heredity  myself. 

SHANKS.  We  got  a  little  heredity  ourselves.  Ma- 
deline's Uncle  Joey  was  in  Hardy's  company.  Ef 
he'd  a  lived  he'd  a  been  a  Gran'  Army  hisself. 

PHILIP.    That's  a  good  point  for  Hardy. 

SHANKS.  Oh,  he  ain't  forgot  it.  Hardy  ain't  the 
forgettin'  kind.  (Consults  watch.)  I  hope  you'll 
excuse  me ;  I  got  ter  meet  a  man  at  the  train. 

MRS.  MANNING.    Certainly. 

SHANKS.  (Going)  Madeline  Icin  make  ye  feel 
more  at  home  than  I  kin,  anyway.  (Exit.) 

MADELINE.     Please  sit  down.     (They  sit.) 

PHILIP.  Now  let's  hold  a  council  of  war.  We're 
going  to  get  you  that  teacher  job  if  I  have  to  set 
fire  to  the  school  house.  What  strings  can  we  pull  ? 

MRS.  MANNING.  There  are  only  five  votes — 
three  men  and  Mrs.  Voorhees  and  myself.  One 
comfort,  my  dear,  the  women  are  for  you. 

PHILIP.  Tompkins  is  a  regular  crony  of  Gilles- 
pie's — sure  for  Mrs.  Simpson. 

MRS.  MANNING.  So's  Wheeler.  Our  only  hope 
is  the  third  man,  Baumer. 

PHILIP.     What's  his  line  of  goods  ? 

MRS.  MANNING.  He  gives  Swedish  massage  and 
tunes  pianos. 

PHILIP.  Tunes  pianos?  Probably  recommends 
some  make  on  commission,  doesn't  he? 

MRS.  MANNING.    I  think  he  does. 

PHILIP.  (Rising)  Good.  I'll  consult  him  about 
a  piano  this  afternoon. 

MRS.  MANNING.  (Shakes  head)  He  knows  I 
have  one. 

PHILIP.  Not  for  you — some  friend  of  mine  get- 
ting married.  And  then — (Indicates  MADELINE,) — 


58  THE    COPPERHEAD 

and  let's  see — I  wonder  if  he  knows  you  sing? 
('MADELINE  shrugs.) 

MRS.  MANNING.  He  must.  The  whole  village  is 
talking  of  your  singing  last  Sunday — the  first  morn- 
ing service  I've  missed  in  months. 

PHILIP.  Well,  there's  another  drag — brother  ar- 
tist— and  I'll  tell  him  if  we  can  get  you  to  live  here 
there'll  be  regular  concerts — you'll  want  a  new  piano 
— the  best  he  can  find,  and  for  every  concert  it'll 
have^  to  be  freshly  tuned  and  massaged  and  every- 
thing. Oh,  I'll  get  Baumer. 

MRS.  MANNING.  They're  raving  about  your  voice. 

MADELINE.    How  lovely ! 

PHILIP.  And  they've  never  really  heard  it.  I 
was  at  church  Sunday  morning.  Come  in  and  sing 
one  of  those  lovely  ballads  for  mother,  now,  and 
we'll  go  on  about  our  campaigning. 

MRS.  MANNING.     (Rising)    Please. 

MADELINE.  (As  they  start  toward  house)  It's 
pleasanter  out  of  doors,  and  you'll  hear  just  as  well. 
(Exit.) 

PHILIP.  (On  porch)  Personally,  I  enjoy  seeing 
it  done. 

MRS.  MANNING.    Don't  embarrass  her,  Philip. 

PHILIP.  (Returns)  Girls  aren't  embarrassed 
nowadays,  Mother,  because  men  like  to  look  at  them. 
(With  lover's  fervor.)  Isn't  she  adorable  ?  (Song 
begins.) 

MRS.  MANNING.  Sh (After  a  few  bars  of 

song — COLONEL  HARDY  enters,  left,  back  of  fence. 
He  is  the  CAPTAIN  HARDY  of  the  first  part  of  play, 
and  now  about  seventy-five  years  old.) 

PHILIP.  (Seeing  HARDY  j  There's  Colonel  Hardy ! 
(Calls.)  Colonel !  (HARDY,  who  has  crossed,  stops 
up  right.  MRS.  MANNING  rises.) 

PHILIP.  (In  tone  intended  not  to  interrupt  singer) 
Mother  and  I  were  just  going  to  see  you,  Colonel, 


THE    COPPERHEAD  59 

HARDY.  (Lifting  hat)  Mrs.  Manning (MRS. 

MANNING  gives  hand.) 

PHILIP.  (Nodding  to  house)  That's  Miss  King 
singing.  Have  you  met  her? 

HARDY.    No. 

PHILIP.    (Opening  gate)     Come  in'. 

HARDY.    No,  thank  you. 

PHILIP.     Business — Colonel — for  the  village 

MRS.  MANNING.     (Persuading)    Yes. 

HARDY.  (Indicates  yard)  It's  forty  years,  Mrs. 
Manning,  since  I  set  foot  on  that  ground. 

PHILIP.  (Playfully)  But  Miss  King's  only  about 
twenty — aren't  visiting  the  third  generation  with  the 
sins  of  others — are  you,  Colonel  ?  You  know  that's 
a  divine  prerogative. 

HARDY.  I  refuse  to  speak  to  Mr.  Milton 

Shank (Song  stops.  MRS.  MANNING  turns 

back  to  porch.) 

PHILIP.    He's  gone  to  the  village. 

HARDY.    No?    (Re-enter  MADELINE. ) 

MADELINE.  (Laughing)  It's  a  very  sentimental 

selection,  but (Slows  down  as  she  sees  the 

stranger.)  Philip  is  rather  partial  to  it. 

MRS.  MANNING.  Miss  King — I  want  Colonel 
Hardy,  our  village  president,  to  meet  you. 

MADELINE.    (Coming  on)    You're  very  good. 

MRS.  MANNING.  Miss  Madeline  King,  Colonel 
Hardy. 

HARDY.    ('Lifting  hat)    Miss  King! 

MADELINE.  Won't  you  come  in,  Colonel  ?  You're 
one  of  my  story  book  heroes. 

HARDY.    (Reserved,  but  pleased  by  her)    Indeed  ? 

MADELINE.  Colonel  Hardy's  a  name  as  large  as 
George  Washington  in  our  household — an  uncle  of 
mine  was  in  your  regiment.  Do  come  in  a  moment. 
('HARDY  enters.  Chairs  are  readjusted.) 

MRS.  MANNING.     Colonel  Hardy  heard  some  of 


60  THE    COPPERHEAD 

your  song.  (To  HARDY. )  This  is  Miss  King's  cer- 
tificate from  the  Normal  School — Boston 

HARDY.  I  won't  sit  down,  thank  you — I'm  on  my 
way  home.  (With  certificate.)  Oh,  yes.  Well, 
you've  evidently  been  very  industrious,  Miss  King. 

MADELINE.  Very  fortunate,  Colonel  ...  so  far. 
My  ambition  now  is  to  be  allowed  to  stay  here. 

HARDY.  (Attempting  humor)  Well — I've  some 
influence  with  the  police. 

MADELINE.    They  haven't  bothered  me — yet. 

PHILIP.    They  may ! 

HARDY.    Yes.    They're  both  young. 

MADELINE.  (Shakes  head)  It's  the  shop-keepers. 
I've  got  work  in  Chicago — but  I  can't  coax  grandpa 
away  from  this  place — and  I'd  rather  come  to  him — 
I  do  know  how  to  teach  school. 

HARDY.  (Musing,  and  studying  her)  'M.  (Pause) 
Your  grandfather  likes  it  here? 

MADELINE.  Adores  it.  I  had  an  awful  time  get- 
ting that  picket  fence — the  old  rails  had  been  there 
when  Captain  Tom  Hardy  leaned  on  them — Sam 
somebody  tied  his  horse  there,  when  Vicksburg  sur- 
rendered. 

HARDY.  (Pause)  The  other  candidate  before  the 
school  board  has  lived  here  always. 

MRS.  MANNING.  Exactly — she'll  perpetuate  every 
local  blemish. 

HARDY.    Her  father  has  lived  here 

MADELINE.  Well,  my  grandfather — and  grand- 
mother— until  Vicksburg  "came  along,"  as  grandpa 
says 

HARDY.  I  knew  your  grandmother,  and  it's  a 
pleasure  to  meet  you.  The  school  board  matter  is 
mere — gossip  with  me :  I'm  not  a  member.  (Extends 
hand.) 

MRS.  MANNING.  Philip  and  I  will  walk  with  you 
a  ways  and  elaborate  the  gossip. 


THE    COPPERHEAD  61 

HARDY.    Delighted. 

PHILIP.  I'll  follow,  mother,  and  relieve  you  in 
a  few  minutes.  I'm  a  terrible  muff  at  gossip. 

HARDY.    He's  boasting. 

PHILIP.  And  the  sidewalks  in  your  man's  town, 
Colonel,  aren't  organized  for  three.  .  .  . 

HARDY.  (At  gate)  My  dear  Philip — that's  what 
recommends  them.  Come,  Mrs.  Manning.  (Exeunt 
MRS.  MANNING  and  COLONEL.  J 

PHILIP.    (Easily)     No  school  like  the  old  school. 

MADELINE.    I  think  your  mother's  wonderful. 

PHILIP.  Father  was  all  right,  too — (Pause  and 
smile) — and  the  further  back  you  go  the  better  we 
get. 

MADELINE.  (Smiling)  I  wasn't  thinking  in  that 
direction. 

PHILIP.    Fine!    Let's  talk  about  me.     (Sits.) 

MADELINE.  You  should  hear  grandpa.  He  thinks 
he  put  you  into  the  legislature. 

PHILIP.     I  think  so,  too. 

MADELINE.  And  in  his  mind  and  heart  he's  got 
you  all  nominated  next  fall  for  Congress. 

PHILIP.  (Seriously)  Really!  ('MADELINE  nods 
and  smiles.)  Funny,  but  Hardy's  been  putting  that 
congressional  bee  into  my  bonnet,  too. 

MADELINE.    Why  not? 

PHILIP.  Oh,  I'm  in  favor  of  it — but  I  might  get 
a  glorious  licking  and  be  assigned  to  go  on  in  very 
private  and  depressing  obscurity  here. 

MADELINE.  (Reproving)  One  doesn't  win  by 
feeling  that  way,  Mr.  Candidate. 

PHILIP.    I  got  in  the  legislature  feeling  that  way. 

MADELINE.  (Pause)  You  said  "depressing  ob- 
scurity !" 

PHILIP.    Well? 

MADELINE.    Do  you  mean  the  life  in  this  place? 

PHILIP.    Principally. 


62  THE   COPPERHEAD 

MADELINE.  I  don't  call  it  depressing.  I  think 
it's  beautiful.  I  love  every  minute  that  I  can  stay 
here. 

PHILIP.    You're  not  a  man — with  ambition. 

MADELINE.  Lincoln  was.  He  lived  only  a  few 
miles  over  that  way. 

PHILIP.  But  Lincoln  wanted  to  go  to  Washington. 

MADELINE.  I  don't  believe  he  did — very  much. 
Grandpa  says  he  didn't.  And  just  a  few  miles  fur- 
ther over  that  way  is  Whitcomb  Riley.  "  'Long  the 
banks  of  Deer  Crick's  good  enough  for  him." 

PHILIP.    I'm  not  a  poet. 

MADELINE.    Grandpa  says  you  are. 

PHILIP.    Does  he? 

MADELINE.    Yes. 

PHILIP.    Did  he  mean  it  for  a  knock  or  a  boost? 

MADELINE.    Boost,  I  hope. 

PHILIP.  Good (Pause.  Earnestly.)  I've 

got  a  notion  to  tell  you  something,  Madeline  King. 

MADELINE.    Poetry  ? 

PHILIP.  (Nods)  The  first  day  I  saw  you — after 
you  came  back  from  Boston — this  same  time  two 
years  ago — I  was  to  make  the  Decoration  Day  speech 
at  the  soldiers'  monument  next  day  and  I  was  scared 
blue — I  didn't  have  a  single  idea — but  I  drifted  by 
here  on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  You  were  stand- 
ing near  the  gate — (MADELINE  nods) — that  big  lilac 

bush  behind  you There'd  been  a  shower  and 

"the  sun  had  come  out  with  a  flagon  of  amber  and 
drenched  the  whole  world  in  ambrosial  wine." 

MADELINE.  (In  real  appreciation)  Oh,  that's 
wonderful. 

PHILIP.  It  seemed  a  vision.  A  symbol  of  the 
beauty  that  must  be  eternal — and — I — had — my — 
speech (Smiles — relaxes.) 

MADELINE.  We  heard  you  make  it.  That's  When 
grandpa  decided  you  were  a  poet.  You  said  some- 


THE    COPPERHEAD  63 

thing  about  the  sadness  of  the  flowers  fading,  but 
the  unbearable  thing  would  be  if  the  Spirit  of  Spring 
itself  should  pass  from  the  world.  Then  about 
those  young  people  there  growing  old,  but  there 
would  always  be  on  earth  the  spirit  of  youth — and 
from  that  to  the  soldiers  dying  but  forever  the  spirit 
of  Liberty — living — and  so  on — didn't  you? 

PHILIP.  Yes — but  all  the  time  I  was  thinking  of 
you  and  that  lilac  and  the  golden  sunlight  over  you 
and,  dog-gone  it,  Madeline,  it's  haunted  me  in 
committee  rooms  and  courts  and  railroad  trains.  Do 
you  know,  I  jumped  up  to  Chicago  from  Springfield 
last  session  and  went  to  church  just  to  look  at  you 
singing. 

MADELINE.    When? 

PHILIP.    In  February. 

MADELINE.    Why  didn't  you  speak  to  me? 

PHILIP.  When  it  was  over  the  aisle  was  crowded 
and  before  I  could  get  to  you — you  went  out  the 
stage  entrance. 

MADELINE.  (Solemnly,  shaking  head)  That  isn't 
what  we  call  the  side  door  of  a  church. 

PHILIP.  I  want  you  to  get  this  teacher  job  if  you 
want  it — but  whether  you  do  or  don't — I've  just  got 
to  have  you  with  me,  Madeline 

MADELINE.  (Pause)  Of  course (Pause.) 

Any  woman  would  be  complimented,  Mr.  Man- 
ning  

PHILIP.    Would  she,  Miss  King? 

MADELINE.  Yes,  Philip (PHILIP  nods  sol- 
emnly.) Complimented  by  your — your — atten- 
tion  

PHILIP.    I'm  asking  you  to  marry  me,  you  know. 

MADELINE.  (Pause)  I  couldn't — (Pause) — 
quite  leave  grandpa — now. 

PHILIP.     Don't  leave  him — if  the  place  is  good 


64  THE    COPPERHEAD 

enough  for  Lincoln  and  Whitcomb  Riley,  I'll  stand 
for  it.  Say  yes. 

MADELINE.  (Regarding  him)  You're  a  funny — 
creature. 

PHILIP.  Well,  I'll  throw  that  in  along  with  the 
poetry — but  principally  I  want  you  to  think  about 
my  law  position  and  my  general  health.  You're  just 
playing  the  mischief  with  both  of  'em.  .  .  .  (Pause. 
He  puts  out  his  hand.  MADELINE  studies  him;  then 
quietly  lays  her  hand  in  his.)  It's  a  bet,  is  it? 

MADELINE.  (Hushed)  Yes — it's  a  bet!  (He 
kisses  her  hand.  Then  with  a  better  idea,  goes  to 
fence  and  looks  right  and  left — returns.  Rising.) 
No. 

PHILIP.  Not  a  God's  soul  in  sight  but  one 
stranger,  and  he's  a  block  away.  (Embraces  and 
kisses  her.) 

MADELINE.  Don't  any  more — don't — (Breaks 
away) — but  I'm  awfully  happy. 

PHILIP.  (Pause)  I  can  think  of  about  a  million 
things  in  my  life  I  wish  I  hadn't  done. 

MADELINE.    Stage  doors? 

PHILIP.  No — mostly  stupid  things,  like  thinking 
there  wasn't  a  God.  (Laughs  tenderly.) 

(Enter,  from  right  back,  DOCTOR  RANDALL.  RAN- 
DALL looks  over  the  fence  as  though  to  identify 
the  place — sees  MADELINE.,) 

RANDALL.  Why !  Miss  King !  (MADELINE  goes 
to  gate.) 

MADELINE.  Doctor  Randall — this  is  wonderful. 
(Shakes  hands.) 

RANDALL.  Yes.  (She  brings  him  through  the 
gate.) 

MADELINE.  Mr.  Manning — let  me  introduce  Doc- 
tor Randall,  of  Chicago. 


THE    COPPERHEAD  65 

PHILIP.    Pleased  to  meet  you,  sir. 

RANDALL.  Mr.  Manning.  (Shaking  hands.) 
Haven't  we  met  before? 

MADELINE.  Mr.  Manning  is  our  member  of  the 
legislature. 

RANDALL.    Judiciary  Committee? 

PHILIP.    Yes. 

RANDALL.    That's  it — I'm  on  the  Pardon  Board. 

PHILIP.    Of  course.   Stupid  not  to  remember  you. 

MADELINE.    Sit  down. 

PHILIP.  I  promised  to  follow  mother,  you  know. 
(To  RANDALL.,)  Honoring  our  metropolis  by  any 
lengthy  visit,  Doctor? 

RANDALL.    Leaving  to-night. 

PHILIP.  Oh — may  see  you  later  at  that.  (Smiles 
to  MADELINE.,)  Good-by.  (Exit  right.) 

MADELINE.    Awfully  good  of  you  to  think  of  me. 

RANDALL.  I  had  a  professional  call  at  Moline 
this  forenoon — seemed  a  crime  to  be  so  near  and  not 
see  you — and  this  amusing  coincidence  of  your 
address. 

MADELINE.    What? 

RANDALL.  The  name — "care  of  Mr.  Milton 
Shanks"— 

MADELINE.    My  grandfather. 

RANDALL.  I  thought  likely — we're  old  acquaint- 
ances. 

MADELINE.    Grandpa  and  you? 

RANDALL.  Yes.  Had  half  a  dozen  conferences  at 
Springfield — since  I've  been  on  the  Pardon  Board. 

MADELINE.    What  about? 

RANDALL.  Some  old  fellow  he's  interested  in. 
But  isn't  it  strange  that  in  all  our  talks  about  him 
you  never  mentioned  his  name? 

MADELINE.  I  don't  know.  He's  gone  to  the 
station  now  to  meet  someone. 


66  THE   COPPERHEAD 

RANDALL.  That's  me,  I  fancy.  I  wrote  him  by 
the  same  mail. 

MADELINE.    Yes  ? 

RANDALL.  I  got  off  at  the  crossing.  Brakeman 
said  I'd  save  time.  (Indicates  bag.)  Nothing  to 
carry. 

MADELINE.    Then  your  visit  isn't  mine,  after  all? 

RANDALL.  Entirely  yours — grandfather  is  just 
An  excuse. 

MADELINE.    Did  you  need  an  excuse? 

RANDALL.  A  man's  self-respect  needs  one,  when 
a  girl's  turned  him  down  annually  for  years. 

MADELINE.  (Smiles)  I've  known  you  only  two 
years,  Doctor. 

RANDALL.  (Pause)  Really?  (She  nods.)  Those 
refusals  seemed  a  year  apart. 

MADELINE.    That's  better. 

RANDALL.     How's  the  voice? 

MADELINE.    Fine,  thank  you. 

RANDALL.  You  know,  I  don't  want  to  talk  physi- 
ology to  you,  but  even  a  great  voice  is  sometimes 
improved  by  marriage. 

MADELINE.  That's  the  most  expensive  treatment 
you've  ever  recommended. 

RANDALL.     I  offer  it  free. 

MADELINE.    'Twouldn't  be  fair. 

RANDALL.    To  you  ? 

MADELINE.    To  either  of  us. 

RANDALL.  I  wouldn't  ask  you  to  give  up  your 
work. 

MADELINE.    I  can't  do  things  by  halves. 

RANDALL.    Not  even — better  halves  ? 

MADELINE.  Not  even  better  halves.  I  love  the 
Church  work  and  the  City  now,  but  when  I  marry 
I'll  want  something  more  like — this — (Stretches  out 
her  arms) — the  sky  to  the  ground  all  about  me. 


THE   COPPERHEAD  67 

RANDALL.    (In  coaxing  cadence)    Suburbs 

MADELINE.     (Shuddering)     Ugh ! 

RANDALL.  (Pause)  The  lake  front  would  give 
us  an  horizon  view  half  way  round. 

MADELINE.  (Pause.  Shakes  head)  I'm — sorry. 
(Pause.  Maternally.)  Dear  Doctor — (Puts  hand 
on  his  arm) — I  haven't  told  anyone  about  it — not 
even  grandpa — but  I'm  engaged  to  be  married  now. 

RANDALL.     (Pause)     Afraid  to  tell  grandpa? 

MADELINE.  No.  (Pause.)  I  haven't  seen  him 
since  it  happened.  (^RANDALL  looks  at  her — looks 
off — looks  at  her — pause — nods  off  inquiringly  after 
PHILIP — MADELINE  slowly  nods  "yes.") 

RANDALL.    Ten  minutes  too  late. 

MADELINE.  No,  dear  Doctor;  I've  been  in  love 
with  him  over  a  year.  (A  pause.  RANDALL  gets  a 
railroad  yellow  time-table  from  his  pocket  and  be- 
gins to  consult  it.  MADELINE  covers  the  time-table.) 
Please  wait  and  see  grandpa.  I  do  want  your  opin- 
ion about  him. 

RANDALL.  'Tisn't  my  specialty — but — I  get  a  bit 
of  it. 

MADELINE.  It  seems  to  be  only  the  Civil  War — 
and  that's  all  right,  too,  except  the  siege  of  Vicks- 
burg. 

RANDALL.    Was  he  at  Vicksburg  ? 

MADELINE.  (Shakes  head)  His  boy — my  uncle 
on  my  mother's  side — was  killed  there. 

RANDALL.    Union  army  ? 

MADELINE.  Yes;  and  some  of  the  explanation 
may  be  there.  Grandpa  wasn't  in  the  Confederate 
army,  but  a  sympathizer.  Folks — well,  not  so  much 
now — but  they  used  to  blame  him  for  it — kinda 
cruelly. 

RANDALL.    I  see.    (Pause.    Re-enter  SHANKS.^ 

MADELINE.     (Going  to  him)     Grandpa,  I'm  glad 


68  THE    COPPERHEAD 

you're  back.  This  is  my  good  friend,  Doctor  Ran- 
dall, of  Chicago. 

SHANKS.    When  you  had  your  sore  throat? 

MADELINE.    Yes. 

SHANKS.  Madeline  never  told  me  the  name,  or 
I'd  known  it.  How'd  I  miss  you? 

RANDALL.    I  got  off  at  the  crossing. 

SHANKS.  Sit  down,  Doctor.  How  do  you  think 
Madeline's  looking? 

RANDALL.  Looking?  Why,  heart-breakingly 
happy,  sir. 

SHANKS.     Heart-breaking? 

MADELINE.  He's  laughing  at  me,  Grandpa,  be- 
cause I've  been  foolish  enough  to  tell  him  a  secret — 
but  I'll  not  let  him  laugh  at  you,  too.  I'm  engaged, 
Grandpa. 

SHANKS.  (Unhappy  at  the  idea  that  the  man  is 
RANDALL.^  Why 

MADELINE.    To  Philip  Manning. 

SHANKS.  To  Philip — well,  I'm  happy,  too.  That 
— (To  RANDALLJ— that'll  keep  her  here—  (To  MA- 
DELINE,)— unless  you  go  to  Washington.  (To  RAN- 
DALL.J  The  young  man's  in  the  legislature.  'Fact, 
you've  heard  him  talk  at  your  commission. 

RANDALL.     (Nodding)    We  met  here  to-day. 

SHANKS.  Engaged.  So  you  don't  care  anything 
about  the  teacher's  position,  then? 

MADELINE.  Oh,  but  I  do — all  the  more.  I've  got 
to  be  perfectly  independent — so  Philip  shan't  feel 
too  sure  about  it.  (All  laugh.) 

SHANKS.  I  reckon  you've  seen  her  more'n  her 
grandfather  has — livin'  in  Chicago. 

MADELINE.    Not  quite,  Grandpa. 

RANDALL.  It  must  be  fairly  lonely  by  yourself. 
What  do  you  do  here,  Mr.  Shanks,  when  she's  away  ? 

SHANKS.    Well — I  read.     (Pause.)     An'  I  think 


THE    COPPERHEAD  69 

considerable — an'  I  cook  some — besides,  a  good  deal 
of  it's  habit. 

RANDALL.  Yes ;  these  machines  of  ours  are  very 
adjustable  things. 

SHANKS.    Machines  ? 

RANDALL.    Our  bodies. 

SHANKS.  Yes,  but  I  cahilate  it's  more  a  man's 
ideas — how  he  thinks.  Automobiles  go  along  that 
road  now,  but  I've  seen  calvary  ridin'  by  in  the 
sixties — an'  cannons — four  horses  to  'em.  General 
Logan — "Fightin'  John,"  they  called  him,  rested  his- 
self  in  that  chair  yer  sittin'  in — Madeline's  grand- 
mother give  him  a  drink  o'  water.  (Conscious  of 
the  well.)  Automobiles  go  by  here  now,  but  some- 
times I  kin  see  Logan  and  the  calvary  plainer.  How 
do  you  account  for  that? 

RANDALL.    Deeper  impressions. 

SHANKS.  Madeline's  mother  played  roun'  under 
them  lilac  bushes — Madeline  played  under  'em. 
Somehow  I  see  the  mother  cl'arest — an'  along  in 
May,  when  the  smell  of  'em  comes  in  the  winder — 
'bout  sundown — why,  I  can't  say  it  makes  me  down- 
hearted 'xactly — but  if  I  was  a  woman,  by  thunder, 
I'd  jes'  cry,  I  reckon.  (Smiles.) 

MADELINE.  (Going  to  him)  Dear  Grandpa — I 
won't  leave  you  alone  so  much  any  more. 

SHANKS.  Nonsense — why,  she's  spent  years  in 
Boston  preparin'  herself.  (To  MADELINE.)  Don't 
you  fret  about  me. 

RANDALL.    You  say  Logan  sat  in  this  chair? 

SHANKS.    Yes ;  Fightin'  John. 

RANDALL.    Was  your  son  with  Logan? 

SHANKS.    With  Grant. 

RANDALL.     Killed  at  Vicksburg. 

SHANKS.  You  heard  of  Joey?  (RANDALL  looks 
at  MADELINE.^ 

MADELINE.    Yes,  Grandpa. 


70  THE    COPPERHEAD 

SHANKS.  Oh!  (Muses.)  Yes,  Vicksburg.  (In 
low  undertone.) 

RANDALL.    A  hard  siege,  I  believe. 

SHANKS.     (Annoyed)     Grant  didn't  push  it. 

RANDALL.    Didn't  eh? 

SHANKS.    No. 

RANDALL.    Tell  me  about  it. 

SHANKS.  It's  all  as  fresh  as  yesterday.  You  see. 
the  country'd  been  waitin'  for  Grant  ter  do  sumpin'. 
(As  the  glint  of  madness  comes  in  SHANKS'  eyes 
MADELINE  puts  her  hands  together  in  distress.  RAN- 
DALL gestures  silence.) 

RANDALL.    Waiting  for  Grant 

SHANKS.  Yes.  So  I  went  down  there  myself.  I 
sez  to  him,  "What's  the  delay,  General  ?"  I  recollec' 
he  was  settin*  on  a  camp  stool  smokin',  and 

MADELINE.    (Goes  to  him)    Grandpa. 

SHANKS.    (Feeling  her  touch)    Yes,  dear. 

MADELINE.  You  were  here  when  they  brought 
Uncle  Joey's  body  home,  weren't  you?  Here  with 
gramma. 

SHANKS.    Yes,  here. 

MADELINE.  Then  you  couldn't  have  been  at  Vicks- 
burg, could  you  ?  (Brushes  his  hair  back.)  That's 
just  the  dream  again,  Grandpa — the  dream. 

SHANKS.  (Pause.  To  RANDALL)  Ever  have  a 
dream  that  way?  Takes  hold  o'  you  perfect — till 
sumpin'  brings  you  out  of  it. 

RANDALL.    I  know  about  them,  a  little.    Yes. 

SHANKS.  It's  all  right,  dearie.  Excuse  me;  I'll 
be  all  right  in  a  minute.  (Goes  up  left  fence.) 

MADELINE.  I  had  to  interrupt  him.  It  hurts  me 
so  when  that  delusion  comes  over  him. 

RANDALL.    Ever  violent  with  it? 

MADELINE.  Never — excited  a  little  in  telling  it — 
I  used  to  believe  him  when  I  was  a  child. 


THE    COPPERHEAD  71 

RANDALL.  The  son's  death  was  a  blow,  of  course, 
but 

MADELINE.    And  his  wife  at  the  same  time. 

RANDALL.    Wife  died?    f MADELINE  nods.)    Oh! 

MADELINE.  And  neighbors  hostile  because  of  his 
politics. 

RANDALL.    I  see. 

MADELINE.  Joey — his  son — enlisted  on  the  Union 
side  and  wouldn't  even  speak  to  grandpa. 

RANDALL.  Well,  that  was  pressure  enough,  God 
knows. 

MADELINE.  Take  a  walk  with  me.  (SHANKS  re- 
turns.) 

RANDALL.    Yes — if  you  wish  it. 

MADELINE.    I'll  get  a  hat.    (Exit  to  house.) 

SHANKS.  And  yer  letter,  Doctor — kind  o'  excited 
me  some — brought  back  old  times. 

RANDALL.    Made  you  happy,  I  hope. 

SHANKS.  I  can't  tell  you  how  much.  The  pore 
feller's  been  in  there  thirty-eight  long  years — and 
night  and  day  I've  thought  about  him — been  workin' 
on  his  case  thirty  years — fifteen  different  legisla- 
tures. 

RANDALL.    Still  his  first  sentence  was  "Death." 

SHANKS.  War  times,  Doctor — and  war-time  hate. 
If  he'd  just  had  on  a  different  suit  of  clothes  when 
we  got  inter  that  fight — he'd  a  been  a  prisoner  o' 
war  and  set  free  in  two  years — jist  as  Philip  Man- 
ning said  ter  yer  board. 

RANDALL.  Does  Tollard  find  any  of  his  old 
friends  living? 

SHANKS.    He  ain't  been  here,  to  my  knowledge. 

RANDALL.    Hasn't  ? 

SHANKS.  (Shakes  head)  Your  letter  was  the 
first  hint  I  had  he  was  free. 

RANDALL.    It  must  have  startled  you. 

SHANKS.    Don't  tell  her. 

RANDALL.    I  won't. 


72  THE   COPPERHEAD 

SHANKS.  She  knows  the  folks  here  have  been 
aginst  me  purty  hard — but  I've  kept  all  that  prison 
talk  and — sentence  o'  death  business  out  of  her  life 
— and  I'm  gonna  see  him  first  an'  tell  him  not  ter 
talk,  'cause  if  he  ain't  got  any  place  else  to  go,  I 
plan  ter  take  him  in  here — yes,  sir. 

RANDALL.  (Gives  hand)  You're  a  Christian  gen- 
tleman, Mr.  Shanks. 

SHANKS.  (Shakes  hand)  Some  back-slidin' — I 
used  horrible  language  durin'  the  war.  (Enter  GIL- 
LESPIE  in  Grand  Army  uniform,  back  left.) 

GILLESPIE.     Shanks. 

SHANKS.     (Turns — pauses)    Well,  Newt? 

GILLESPIE.    Busy  ? 

SHANKS.  I've  got  a  friend  visitin'  here.  (Enter 
MADELINE.^ 

MADELINE.  I'm  going  to  walk  up  and  meet  Mrs. 
Manning,  Grandpa.  (Sees  GILLESPIE.  ) 

GILLESPIE.     (Pause)     That's  her — ain't  it? 

SHANKS.     Madeline — this  is  Mr.  Newt  Gillespie. 

MADELINE.    How  do  you  do,  sir? 

GILLESPIE.    (Pause)    Elsie's  dotter? 

SHANKS.    Yes. 

GILLESPIE.  I  knowed  yer  grandmother,  young 
woman. 

MADELINE.    I  never  saw  her. 

GILLESPIE.  Well,  anybody  'at  ever  did  would  a 
knowed  she  was  your  grandmother.  Don't  lemme 
keep  you — because  us  men  has  some  business. 

MADELINE.  We'll  go,  then — come,  Doctor.  (DOC- 
TOR opens  gate,  exit  with  MADELINE.,) 

GILLESPIE.     I  don't  call  on  you  very  of'en,  Milt. 

SHANKS.    No. 

GILLESPIE.  But  I  ain't  Hardy — I  ain't  tongue- 
tied. 

SHANKS.    You  said  business,  Newt 

GILLESPIE.    The  school  board  votes  to-night — for 


THE    COPPERHEAD  73 

a  new  teacher — my  dotter  has  earned  the  place  by 
years  o'  primer  school  work — and  she's  substituted 
satisfactory  in  this  job — the  old  settlers  here  ain't 
gonna  be  patient  with  any  move  to  outflank  her. 

SHANKS.  I  think  it's  gone  too  far  ter  do  any- 
thing but  leave  it  ter  the  board. 

GILLESPIE.  Tain't  gone  too  far  fur  your  girl  ter 
withdraw. 

SHANKS.    I  kain't  ask  her  to  do  that. 

GILLESPIE.     Oh,  yes,  ye  kin. 

SHANKS.    Well—         (Pause.)     I  won't. 

GILLESPIE.    You  will,  Milt. 

SHANKS.  Well,  just  remember,  Newt — I  didn't 
gee  and  haw  about  it.  I  tell  you  once  for  all — flat- 
footed — no. 

GILLESPIE.  (Pause)  Grover  Cleveland's  been 
president  twict — an'  I  ain't  aimin'  ter  dig  up  the 
bloody  shirt  agin,  but  when  little  children  air  under 
a  teacher's  influence  murder  ain't  a  nice  subject  to 
have  in  their  minds.  This'll  be  my  argument  ter  the 
school  board  to-night  if  you  compel  me. 

SHANKS.  (Pause)  I  respect  that  coat  ye  got  on, 
Newt,  and  that  cord  round  yer  hat.  Them  are  nay- 
tionat — but  it's  a  mystery  ter  me  sometimes  how  the 
war  ever  was  won  with  souls  as  little  as  yours  is 
behind  the  guns. 

GILLESPIE.  I'll  tell  ye,  Milt — an'  yer  welcome  to 
repeat  it.  It's  'cause  the  souls  on  the  other  side 
was  the  size  o'  yourn.  (Pause.)  Now  yer  kin  go 
ter  yer  church  Sunday — and  sing  "Fur  sech  a  worm 
as  I" — but  Elsie's  dotter  withdraws. 

SHANKS.  (Pause)  Twasn't  murder,  and  you 
know  it.  They  wair  shootin'  on  both  sides — fast  as 
any  pitched  battle. 

GILLESPIE.  That's  all  been  adjudicated  by  the 
courts  an'  one  of  yer  gang  is  still  servin'  a  life 
sentence  fur  it  at  Joliet. 


74  THE    COPPERHEAD 

SHANKS.    No — he's  pardoned  now. 

GILLESPIE.     Lem  Tollard? 

SHANKS.    Yes. 

GILLESPIE.    Who  contrived  that? 

SHANKS.  The  unanimous  pardon  board — that 
gentleman  walkin'  with  Madeline  is  a  member  of  it. 

GILLESPIE.  Pardoned?  ('SHANKS  nods.)  Well 
-v-that  don't  hurt  my  argument.  (Chews  excitedly.) 

On  the  contrary (Pause.)  An'  it'll  jes'  set 

tongues  a  waggin' — I  don't  hev  to  be  personal  at 
all — it'll  be  only  foresighted  fur  the  board  to  shun 
it  in  the  school  house.  Ye've  jist  histed  yerself  with 
yer  own  pattard — I  told  you  you'd  withdraw. 

(Enter  LEM,  right.  He  is  seventy-eight — but  a  fierce 
and  burning  seventy-eight — sullen  and  patient.) 

LEM.     (Inquiring)    Gillespie? 

GILLESPIE.     (Pause)     That's  my  name. 

LEM.    You  know  me,  don't  you?    (To  SHANKS.^ 

SHANKS.  Yes — 'cause  I  been  expectin'  you — but 
we're  both  changed  a  heap — come  in.  (Extends 
hand.) 

LEM.    (Refuses  hand  but  enters)    Expectin'  me? 

SHANKS.    Yes. 

LEM.    Why? 

SHANKS.    Well — you  lived  here 

LEM.  Not  for  thirty-eight  years,  I  ain't — by  God ! 

SHANKS.  I've  kept  count  of  'em  and  I  went  be- 
fore every  legislature  we've  had — an'  ter  every  gov- 
ernor up  to  this  time. 

LEM.  I  knew  some  bastard  must  a  been  at  work 
ter  keep  me  there.  (Pause.)  Ye  didn't  stay  inside 
there  long  yourself,  did  you? 

SHANKS.  Sorry  yer  bitter  about  it,  Lem — but  I 
ain't  found  much  to  choose  between — outside  or  in 
— except  the  last  year  or  so 


THE    COPPERHEAD  75 

LEM.    You  expected  me — 'cause  I  lived  here. 

SHANKS.    Yes. 

LEM.  Listen  ter  this,  Gillespie — 'cause  it's  gonna 

be  important — and  short (Pause.)  I've  come 

'cause  you  live  here — 'cause  I've  figured  out  who 
fixed  it  so  the  cavalry  was  in  them  especial  bushes 
waitin'  for  us — I've  figured  why  I  was  invited  ter 
the  arsenal  in  St.  Louis  and  shet  up  till  Camp  Jack- 
son was  captured — I've  figured  why  several  plans  of 
ours  come  out  the  little  end  o'  the  horn — figured 
it Listenin',  Gillespie? 

GILLESPIE.    I  am. 

LEM.  Now  listen  and  watch,  too — when  I  hand 
you  what's  comin'  to  you,  Milt — it's  gonna  be  in  the 
guts.  (Enter  PHILIP  and  MADELINE. )  Why?  Be- 
cause there  it  ain't  immediate  and  you  have  time, 
God  damn  you,  to  suffer  and  be  sorry.  (Draws  gun. 
PHILIP  has  been  ready  from  word  "guts"  and  grabs 
LEM  from  back.) 

MADELINE.    Grandpa (Runs  to  SHANKS.,) 

PHILIP.  Give  that  to  me !  (Quickly  gets  gun  and 
throws  LEM  from  him  to  ground.  Enter  RANDALL 
and  MRS.  MANNING.) 

MRS.  MANNING.  Philip — Philip — what's  the  mat- 
ter? 

RANDALL.  Tollard — what's  this  mean — your  par- 
don's conditional  on  good  behavior. — Now  go.  (TOL- 
LARD goes  out  gate;  waits  for  GILLESPIE.) 

GILLESPIE.  I've  heard  his  case — (To  SHANKS.) 
— and  he  ought  a  killed  you — by  God !  You're  more 
a  murderer  than  he  is — you  was  sentenced  to  be 
hung  and  they  ought  a  hung  you  forty  years  ago. 
(To  MRS.  MANNING.)  School  board!  This  is  the 
kind  o'  scandals  you're  tryin'  to  introduce  with  your 
Boston  idears 

MADELINE.  To  be  hanged — why,  Grandpa — 
Philip 


76  THE    COPPERHEAD 

GILLESPIE.  Damned  ole  jailbird — firebrand  and 
horse  thief  and  copperhead!  Once  a  copperhead — 
always  a  copperhead.  (Exit.) 

SHANKS,  Maddy — Maddy,  dear — it  had  to  come 
some  time — you  got  ter  gimme  a  minute  ter  collect 
my  idears.  I  ain't  afraid  o'  death,  Philip — but  I 
couldn't  leave  her  this  way ! 

(CURTAIN.) 


ACT  IV 

SCENE:  Cheap  Illinois  rural  interior — but  neat.  The 
room  is  rectangular  except  that  upper  left  cor- 
ner is  obliqued  for  a  chimney-piece  and  cheap 
wood  mantel  of  a  low  ivory  in  color.  The  back 
wall  has  an  exterior  door,  right,  and  window, 
left.  A  second  window  is  up,  right,  in  side  wall. 

A  door  to  kitchen  is  down,  left.  The  wall- 
paper is  neutral.  There  are  hartshorn  blinds 
and  cheap  muslin  curtains  looped  back.  A 
much  worn  rug  or  ingrain  carpet — preferably 
rug — covers  entire  floor. 

Combined  bookcase  and'  desk,  right.  Desk  is 
open  and  full  of  the  accumulated  scraps  of 
years.  Chair  at  desk.  Leaf  table,  center,  closed 
and  covered  with  faded  red  cloth.  Piano  be- 
tween door  and  window.  Two  mid-Victorian 
hair  chairs  at  table.  Rocker  above  fireplace. 
Black  walnut  buffet,  left.  Cheaply  furnished. 
The  mantelpiece  carries  a  Rogers'  group — and 
some  China  peasants.  The  fireplace  has  a  wall- 
paper screen  in  itf  a  rusty  iron  fender  is  in  place, 
and  blowers.  In  upper  right  corner  is  a  fur- 
nished "whatnot."  The  pictures  on  wall  are 
framed  prints  of  sentimental  stuff.  An  oval 
frame  of  walnut  molding  over  fireplace  holds 
photo  of  boy  of  sixteen  in  Federal  uniform. 
Center  table  has  a  lamp.  V oik's  life  mask  of 
Lincoln  hangs  on  mantel  panel  over  fire  opening 


78  THE    COPPERHEAD 

— Lincoln's  hand  is  in  bookcase  desk.  Through 
back  door  is  seen  ceiling  of  porch,  which  may  be 
a  small  piece  hung  to  about  height  of  door.  The 
back  drop  beyond  gives  an  oblique  of  left  side 
of  first  set  adjusted  to  angle  of  that  set — house. 

DISCOVERED:  MADELINE  putting  away  the  supper 
dishes  on  dresser.  She  takes  off  apron  and 
brings  writing  material  from  desk  to  table. 
Lights  lamp. 

( MADELINE  turns  at  sound  of  step  on  porch.  PHILIP 
appears.) 

PHILIP.    (Pause)    Good-evening. 

MADELINE.     (With  restraint)    Good-evening. 

PHILIP.    May  I  come  in  ? 

MADELINE.    Yes. 

PHILIP.  (Enters)  Well — that's  something. 
(Pause.)  Shake  hands?  (Extends  hand.) 

MADELINE.    Yes. 

PHILIP.    Feeling  better? 

MADELINE.    Seeing  better,  I  think. 

PHILIP.  Couldn't  be  looking  better — unless  per- 
haps you'd  consent  to  smile. 

MADELINE.  (Bitterly)  Not  in  this  place.  When 
I've  got  him  away  from  these  people  who  can  carry 
hatred  for  a  lifetime — got  him  safe  with  me  in  the 
city — perhaps. 

PHILIP.  Only  two  old  geezers  in  their  dotage — 
ignorant  and  primitive.  One  of  them  just  turned 
loose  from  jail.  Why  care  about  them  ? 

MADELINE.  (Shakes  head)  Colonel  Hardy,  the 
biggest  man  in  the  town,  hasn't  spoken  to  him  in 
nearly  forty  years.  And  to  think  I  was  ignorant  of 
the  martyrdom  he  was  suffering ! 

PHILIP.    But  it's  over  now,  isn't  it? 


THE    COPPERHEAD  79 

MADELINE.  Is  it?  Who's  been  here  to  see  him 
since  it  happened?  The  afternoon's  gone  by  and 
only  the  string  of  morbid  gossips  gaping  past  the 
house. 

PHILIP.    I've  been  here. 

MADELINE.    Your  mother  hasn't. 

PHILIP.  Well,  mother's  peculiar — mother  be- 
lieves  

MADELINE.    (Pause)    In  heredity. 

PHILIP.  Mother  believes  there  are  times  when 
people  want  to  be  alone — besides,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  that  shindy  of  ours  rather  shook  mother's 
nerves.  She  never  saw  anybody  pull  a  gun  before 
— and 

MADELINE.  Nor  heard  any  one  called  a  mur. 
derer. 

PHILIP.  I  fancy  not.  But  mother's  all  right. 
She  said:  "My  heart  just  aches  for  poor  little 
Madeline."  (  MADELINE  sits  and  covers  eyes.)  I 
told  her  'twasn't  best  to  pull  much  of  that — and 
you  see  I'm  right.  Don't  cry,  dear,  unless  it  com- 
forts you.  (Pause.)  Must  be  a  deuce  of  a  strain. 
(Arm  about  her.) 

MADELINE.    (Moves  away)    Please  don't  do  that. 

PHILIP.  We're  engaged,  aren't  we?  (MADELINE 
shakes  her  head.  Pause.)  Well,  I  am — and  I've 
got  a  witness.  That  Doctor  friend  of  yours  con- 
gratulated me — said  you'd  told  him. 

MADELINE.     Did  your  mother  congratulate  you? 

PHILIP.     Not  yet — but  she  will. 

MADELINE.    Did  you  tell  her  ? 

PHILIP.  (Pauses — shakes  head)  She  heard  the 
Doctor.  (MADELINE  looks  at  him.  Pause.)  I  was 
planning  to  cushion  it — even  if  that  scrap  hadn't 
have  happened. 

MADELINE.    Naturally 

PHILIP.    I  mean  for  any  girl.    When  a  fellow's 


80  THE    COPPERHEAD 

an  only  child  and  his  mother's  a  widow,  she 

(Shakes  head.)  Well,  for  a  thing  like  this  you  got 
to  kind  o'  blindfold  'em  and  back  'em  into  it.  Mother 
thinks  now  that  I  don't  love  her — (Shakes  head) — 
and  I  kind  o'  hoped  I'd  bring  up  my  average  with 
you. 

MADELINE.  (Pause)  You  may  tell  her  she  has 
nothing  to  fear. 

PHILIP.  Ha !  You  don't  know  my  mother.  When 
I  tell  her  that  you're  making  her  conduct  an  excuse 
for  throwing  me  over,  she'll  be  in  here  asking  you 
what  you  mean  by  it.  I  want  you  to  marry  me 
because  you  love  me  and — appreciate  me,  and  not 
just  to  get  rid  of  mother. 

MADELINE.    (Smiles)    Oh,  Philip! 

PHILIP.  (Pleased  with  smile)  That's  the  girl 
I'm  going  to  marry. 

MADELINE.  (Tasting  her  tears)  That's  the  girl 
that's — breaking  her  heart — because  you're  not. 

PHILIP.  (Pause)  Why,  Madeline,  I'd  insist  on 
your  keeping  your  contract  with  me — if  you'd  been 
in  jail.  You  can't  cancel  it  because  this  story  turns 
up  about  your  grandfather. 

MADELINE.  I  saw  the  horror  on  your  mother's 
face  when  grandpa  couldn't  deny  the  stories — cop- 
perhead and  horse  thief  and  murder  and  peniten- 
tiary  

PHILIP.  But,  Madeline,  some  of  our  best  families 
can't  stand  a  show-down  on  grandfathers.  Why 

MADELINE.  No,  no — I  love  him  and  I'll  take  him 
away  and  protect  him — but  I  won't  burden  your 
career  with  that — a  public  man  just  starting — his 
success — a 

PHILIP.    Where  is  your  grandfather  now? 

MADELINE.    In  town  somewhere. 

PHILIP.  I've  got  a  car  out  here.  Come  with  me. 
We'll  pick  him  up  and  a  ride  will  do  you  both 


THE    COPPERHEAD  81 

good.  (MADELINE  shakes  her  head,  A  step  is  heard. 
They  turn.  Enter  RANDALL.^ 

RANDALL.    Good-evening. 

PHILIP.    How  are  you? 

RANDALL.  I  don't  mean  to  intrude,  but  I've  an 
appointment  here  with  Mr.  Shanks.  (Consults 
watch.) 

PHILIP.  I'm  glad  not  to  leave  Madeline  alone, 
Doctor.  (Pause.)  That  engagement  on  which  you 
congratulated  me  is  disturbing  her  just  at  present. 
I  wish  you'd  tell  her  that  in  politics  a  man's  father 
cuts  very  little  ice  and  when  it  comes  to  grand- 
fathers, that  most  of  the  voters  never  had  any.  (To 
MADELINE.,)  He'll  tell  you  I'm  right  about  it. 
(Exit.) 

MADELINE.    Where  did  you  leave  grandpa? 

RANDALL.  On  his  way  to  Colonel  Hardy's — if 
that's  the  name. 

MADELINE.    Why  there? 

RANDALL.  (Shakes  head)  Something  about  an 
election  to-night. 

MADELINE.    At  the  school  board? 

RANDALL.     I  think  so. 

MADELINE.  Poor  grandpa.  He  mustn't  be  hu- 
miliated by  that.  Oh,  dear ! 

RANDALL.     What  is  it? 

MADELINE.  I'd  applied  for  the  appointment  as 
school  teacher,  but  I  don't  want  it  now — and  I  wish 
grandpa  wouldn't  say  any  more  about  it. 

RANDALL.  (Pause)  Our  friend — (Nods  off) — 
says  your  engagement  is  disturbing  you  some  way. 
What  does  he  mean? 

MADELINE.    I've  broken  it. 

RANDALL.    On  account  of — this — trouble  to-day? 

MADELINE.    Yes. 

RANDALL.     (Pause)     'M!     (Pause.)    Why,  as  I 


82  THE    COPPERHEAD 

remember  it,   Mr.   Manning  behaved   rather   sym- 
pathetically. 

MADELINE.    His  mother  didn't. 

RANDALL.  Well — (Pause) — it's  hard  for  me  to 
be  an  enthusiastic  advocate,  but  maybe  it's  just  as 
unfair  to  blame  him  for  mother  as  it  would  be  to 
blame  you  for  grandfather. 

MADELINE.  She's  never  liked  grandpa.  I  was 
only  twelve  when  she  took  me  away  from  him. 

RANDALL.    She  took  you? 

MADELINE.    Well,  sent  me. 

RANDALL.    Why  ? 

MADELINE.     School — and  music  lessons  in  Bos- 

n.    Their  family  comes  from  there. 

RANDALL.    What  was  her  reason? 

MADELINE.  She  heard  me  singing  in  here  as  I 
was  washing  dishes  one  day.  I  must  have  been 
bawling,  because  she  stopped  her  carriage  and  turned 
back  and  then  came  in. 

RANDALL.    Did  she  have  her  son  with  her? 

MADELINE.    No. 

RANDALL.  Carriage?  ('MADELINE  nods.)  By 
taking  you  away  from  your  grandfather,  you  mean 
that  she  financed  your  school  period? 

MADELINE.  Yes — and  that's  one  of  the  things 
I'm  going  to  repay.  That  must  have  hurt  grandpa, 
too — because  he's  awfully  fine  and  delicate  about 
such  things — but  what's  a  girl  of  twelve  know? 
Can't  you  go  to  Colonel  Hardy's  and  find  grandpa? 

RANDALL.  Yes,  but  let's  be  sure  that's  what  we 
want  to  do.  Don't  you  think  that  unpleasantly  sug- 
gests a  lack  of  responsibility  and 

MADELINE.    Yes — of  course — you  mustn't  go. 

RANDALL.  (Pause)  This — this  indebtedness  you 
imply  to  Mrs.  Manning — was  that — did  that  influ- 
ence you  in  entering  into  this  engagement  with  her 
son? 


THE   COPPERHEAD  83 

MADELINE.  Rather  the  other  way — but  that's 
over  now.  She's  been  against  the  other  woman  who 
is  applying  for  the  teacher's  place — against  her  be- 
cause her  father,  Mr.  Gillespie,  is — rather  ordinary 
— but  grandpa's  education  isn't  any  better — and  I 
couldn't — (Shakes  head.) — with  this — this  new  talk 

about  him.  No,  it's  over — over — all  of  that 

(Throws  it  from  her.) 

RANDALL.  I'm  not  going  to  be  so  gauche  as  to 
urge  my  interest  again — at  a  moment  like  this — but 
I  want  you  to  be  conscious  of  me  as  a  kind  of  rainy 
day  proposition — one  of  those  consolation  back- 
grounds— like  an  accident  policy  when  one  feels  the 
automobile  skidding. 

MADELINE.  Dear  Doctor,  your  proposals  are  all 
so — so 

RANDALL.    Indefinite? 

MADELINE.  Practical — to  improve  my  voice,  or 
live  on  the  lake  front,  or  guard  against  skidding — 
but  I  do  like  you. 

RANDALL.  And  my  dear  mother  is  buried — in 
Ann  Arbor. 

(Enter  GILLESPIE.J 

GILLESPIE.    Where  is  Mr.  Milton  Shanks? 

MADELINE.  He's  not  at  home,  and  I  wouldn't  let 
you  see  him  if  he  were. 

GILLESPIE.  He  left  word  at  my  house  that  if  I 
wasn't  a  coward,  to  come  here  soon  as  I  got  home. 

MADELINE.    Doctor 

RANDALL.    Well,  we'll  tell  him  you  called. 

GILLESPIE.  I  won't  trouble  you,  stranger.  I'll 
wait  for  him. 

MADELINE.    Not  in  here,  Mr.  Gillespie. 

GILLESPIE.  Sidewalk  suits  me — unless  it's  just 
another  copperhead  trick  ter  keep  me  away  from 


84  THE    COPPERHEAD 

the  school  board.  I'll  stay  right  out  here  till  that 
meets — and  then  I'll  be  back  agin  when  it  adjourns 
— at  the  gate.  (Exit.) 

MADELINE.    Doctor 

RANDALL.  Nothing  to  fear,  Madeline.  An  old 
fellow  like  that!  Why,  his  wind  goes  at  the  first 

real  exertion.  Besides (Voices  outside.  PHILIP 

and  GILLESPIE.J 

MADELINE.     Mr.  Manning  again. 

GILLESPIE.  (Outside)  Half  a  dozen  fellers 
heered  him.  By  God,  I  never  tuk  a  dare  from  a 
copperhead  in  the  army  times. 

RANDALL.  Your  grandfather  isn't  there.  Come 
away. 

MADELINE.  I  can't  stand  any  more  fuss.  (PHILIP 
and  MRS.  MANNING  appear.) 

PHILIP.  Here's  mother,  Madeline.  I'll  be  right 
back  myself.  (Exit.  MRS.  MANNING  enters.) 

MRS.  MANNING.     Madeline! 

MADELINE.    Mrs.  Manning 

MRS.  MANNING.  Dear  Madeline,  you  don't  doubt 
my  affection  for  you  ? 

MADELINE.  'Tisn't  a  question  of  that,  Mrs.  Man- 
ning. I  know  your  pride,  too.  I'm  not  going  to 
shame  it. 

MRS.  MANNING.  Philip  wants  us  to  go  on  as 
though  nothing  had  happened — and  wants  us  not 
to  let  this  business  stampede  our  meeting  to-night. 
The  whole  matter  can  be  put  over  a  week.  Philip's 
a  lawyer  and 

MADELINE.  What  can  a  week  change,  if  it's  all 
true? 

MRS.  MANNING.    Perhaps  it  isn't. 

MADELINE.  Perhaps  it  is.  Grandpa  hasn't  denied 
it. 

MRS.  MANNING.    He  hasn't? 

MADELINE.    No.    (Voices  outside.) 


THE    COPPERHEAD  85 

SHANKS.  (Voice  emerging)  Yes,  I  said  so. 
Come  in,  Philip. 

RANDALL.  That's  Mr.  Shanks.  ('SHANKS  and 
PHILIP  appear.) 

SHANKS.  Inside,  Gillespie.  (PHILIP  enters  and 
goes  to  MADELINE,  who  avoids  him — down  left.) 
Inside.  (Enters.  GILLESPIE  enters.  SHANKS  looks 
about  at  others — hesitates.) 

GILLESPIE.  If  I  wasn't  a  coward,  I'd  come.  Well, 
I'm  here. 

SHANKS.  I've  asked  Colonel  Hardy  to  come 
here. 

PHILIP.     Mr.  Shanks! 

SHANKS.    Yes,  Philip. 

PHILIP.    (Impulsively)    There's  my  hand,  sir. 

SHANKS.     (Taking  hand)    Yes. 

PHILIP.  (Pause)  You  can  tell  whether  I  like 
you  or  not,  can't  you? 

SHANKS.  (In  pain  of  grasp)  Yes,  Philip — I  kin 
— but  don't  keep  it  up  any  longer'n  you  haf  to. 
(Straightens  his  cramped  fingers.) 

MRS.  MANNING.  I've  just  got  to  be  straightfor- 
ward with  you,  Mr.  Shanks. 

SHANKS.  Best  way — allers — if  ye  kin — straight- 
forward ! 

MRS.  MANNING.  Were  you  ever — convicted  on  a 
criminal  charge? 

SHANKS.    (Pause.    Nods)    Once. 

MRS.  MANNING.    That  man  said  the  penitentiary. 

GILLESPIE.    An'  I  said  so,  too. 

MRS.  MANNING.  I  hate  to  add  a  moment  to  your 
unhappiness,  Mr.  Shanks.  (Pause,  during  which 
SHANKS  suffers  quietly.)  I'm  perfectly  willing  to 
concede  that  there  was  some  mistake  about  it — that 
you  were  probably  innocent  of  the  charge,  but — 

SHANKS.  (Shakes  head)  No,  I  took  'em — me 
and  some  other  fellers  workin'  for  the  South.  Them 


86  THE    COPPERHEAD 

was  war  times,  recollec',  an'  they  wanted  the  horse* 
fur  John  Moseby  in  Kentucky.  'F  I'd  been  in  the 
army,  it'd  been  all  right,  but  I  was — I  wasn't  in  the 
army.  (Pause.)  So (Throws  up  his  hands.) 

MRS.  MANNING.  You  must  believe  I  haven't 
meant  to  hurt  you,  Mr.  Shanks ! 

SHANKS.  Course.  Yer  jist  thinkin*  about  yer 
boy. 

MRS.  MANNING.    That's  all. 

PHILIP.    Never  mind  about  me. 

SHANKS.  That's  all  'at  matters  now.  I  don't 
care  about  myself.  Two  other  fellers  was  convicted 
'long-  with  me.  One  of  'em's  gone  now;  you  saw 
the  other  one  to-day — so  I  don't  have  to  say  any- 
thing fur  them.  But  I  would Folks  called 

'em  "copperheads,"  but  they  thought  they  was  work- 
in'  fur  their  country,  same  as  folks  on  the  other  side. 
Grant  understood.  He  gave  every  feller  his  side- 
arms  and  his  boss  at  Appomattox.  Grant  said: 
"You'll  need  the  bosses,  boys,  to  plant  yer  crops." 

That's  what  Abe  Lincoln  would  o'  said,  too.  Er 

(Pause.)  Sorry,  Philip — (Pause.) — awful  sorry. 

PHILIP.  (Hands  on  SHANKS'  shoulders)  Over 
fifty  years  ago,  Mr.  Shanks.  It's  a  damned  shame 
to  dig  it  up  now.  There's  a  moral  statute  of  limita- 
tions and  I  hope  that  in  fifty  years  I'll  have  as  clean 
a  heart.  (Strikes  SHANKS  on  breast.) 

SHANKS.  (Pause  and  tender  regard)  Taller'n 
me.  He — he  used  to  put  his  hands  on  my  shoulders. 
I  wish  Hardy'd  come — but  there's  somethin'  we  kin 
do  while  we're  waitin'.  (He  goes  to  desk — gets  old 
revolver  in  paper,  unwraps  it.  There  is  a  tag  which 
his  grasp  hides.) 

MRS.  MANNING.    Is  that  loaded? 

SHANKS.    Four  barrels — yes. 

GILLESPIE.     I  didn't  bring  any  gun. 

SHANKS.     You  kin  have  this  one,  Newt.     (To 


THE    COPPERHEAD  87 

MADELINE.,)  Dearie,  git  the  corkscrew  for  me. 
(MADELINE  goes  for  old  folding  corkscrew  in  buf- 
fet)  Philip. 

PHILIP.    Mr.  Shanks. 

SHANKS.  At  my  trial,  this  was  marked  Exhibit 
B.  Two  barrels  fired.  The  rest  are  just  as  we  left 
'em.  Take  that  corkscrew,  Philip,  and  pull  out  the 
wads  and  the  powder,  'cause  they  never  was  any  bul- 
lets in  'em.  I  didn't  say  that  at  the  trial,  'cause  I — 
didn't  want  to  lay  the  blame  all  on  the  others — but 
I  ain't  a  murderer,  Madeline. 

MADELINE.     Of  course  you  aren't,  dear. 

GILLESPIE.  You've  had  thirty-eig-ht  years  ter  git 
out  the  bullets  yerself. 

SHANKS.  That's  so — and  I  only  want  to  convince 
Madeline  about  that.  I've  never  told  her  a  story. 

PHILIP.    I  believe  you,  too. 

GILLESPIE.  Well,  I  don't — and  it's  time  fur  your 
school  board  meetin',  Mrs.  Manning. 

(Enter  HARDY.  J 

SHANKS.  Come  in,  Colonel  Hardy,  come  in,  sir. 
Sit  down,  Mrs.  Manning.  A  short  horse  is  soon 
curried,  and  my  business  won't  keep  the  men  stand- 
in'  long.  (HARDY  comes  down,  bowing  to  company.) 
Sit  down,  Maddy,  dear — you  kin  stan'  by  her,  Philip. 
(Pause  as  group  arranges  itself.)  Doctor  Randall. 
(Pause.)  Philip.  (Pause.  Defers  to  MRS.  MAN- 
NING slightly.)  Colonel  Hardy  and  me  was  boys 
together.  Our  Congressman  give  me  an  appoint- 
ment to  West  Point,  but  Tom  Hardy  ought  a  o'  had 
it.  Besides,  'twasn't  convenient  for  me  to  go  to 
West  Point  jest  then,  so  I  resigned  it  fur  him.  'Fore 
that,  we  went  together  to  a  school  where  Abe  Lin- 
coln come  and  talked  to  us.  We  both  knowed  him 


88  THE    COPPERHEAD 

from  that  time  on  until  he  was  elected  President — > 
ain't  that  so,  Colonel  Hardy? 

HARDY.    (Severely)    Yes. 

SHANKS.  (Gets  mask  from  mantel,  blows  dust 
from  it.)  Lincoln!  We  was  together  at  his  house, 
'fore  he  started  for  Washington.  A  sculpture  man 
was  there  to  take  a  plaster  Paris  model  of  his  face. 
Most  folks  think  this  is  a  after  death  thing-,  but 
Colonel  Hardy  and  me  saw  it  took — jes'  throwed 
the  soft  plaster  on  his  face  and  let  it  git  hard.  Lin- 
coln sittin'  in  a  armchair,  like  you  are.  (To  MRS. 
MANNING. )  In  this  box — (Gets  it  from  desk.) — 
where  I  have  my  letters  and  keepsakes — is  a  model 
of  Lincoln's  hand — the  hand  that  wrote  the  emanci- 
pation of  slavery.  (Pause.)  The  sculpture  man 
sent  me  these  hisself,  so  they're  genuine.  That 
stick's  a  piece  of  broom  handle  Lincoln  sawed  off 
while — Volk — (Reads  name  on  cast.) — that  was  the 
sculpture  feller's  name — while  Volk  was  mixin' 
plaster  in  a  washbowl.  (Shows  hand  by  his  own.) 
Bigger  man'n  me,  every  way.  (Pause.)  All  of  the 
statues  of  Lincoln  nowadays  is  copied  from  this — 
(Pause.) — so,  you  see,  we  knowed  him.  (Pause.) 
Then  the  war  broke  out.  Hardy  tuk  a  vow  to  sup- 
port his  country,  I  took  one  to  destroy  it.  Hardy's 
company  marched  oft" — my  Joey,  only  sixteen,  along 
with  'em.  His  mother  leant  agin  the  fence  an'  the 
women  fanned  her — an',  my  God — he  looked  like  a 
soldier!  (Regards  picture — suggests  march.  To 
PHILIP. )  You  was  probably  thinner  at  sixteen  yer- 
self. 

PHILIP.    Yes — I  was. 

SHANKS.  I  was  peekin'  from  some  bushes — cud 
o'  almost  teched  him  as  they  marched  by — (Pause.) 

— blue  eyes (To  MRS.  MANNING.  Pause.) 

His  mother  never  said  a  word — cried  quite  a  spell. 
Well,  us  Knights  o'  the  Golden  Circle 


THE    COPPERHEAD  89 

GILLESPIE.    Copperheads. 

SHANKS.  (Pause)  Golden  Circle — we  sent  help 
to  the  South — all  we  could — and  we  pizened  cattle, 
and  I  went  to  Richmond — Virginy — twict.  Time 
went  on  an'  Vicksburg  come  and  one  night  a  feller 
galloped  into  town  hyar  and  hitched.  "When'd  you 
hear  from  Joe  ?"  sez  he.  "Last  week,"  I  sez.  "How 
was  he?"  sez  he,  a-foolin'  round  tightenin'  up  his 
girth.  "All  right,"  sez  I,  and  he  sez :  "Joe's  dead." 
(Pause.  To  MADELINE,  j  I  kin  see  yer  gramma  yet, 
a-cryin'  by  the  well,  pettin'  the  corner  of  it  where 
Joey'd  been.  Bym'  by,  I  leant  over  to  tech  her,  but 
she  drawed  away,  a-tremblin'  and  a-sayin :  "For 
Gawd's  sake,  Milt  Shanks,  yer  unclean !"  (Pause. 
To  MRS.  MANNING.J  His  mother — (Pause) — two 
or  three  days  she  was  pinin' — with  her  face  agin  the 

letters  he'd  wrote  home,  and  then (Pause.) 

At  the  church — instead  of  the  trouble  I  expected 
from  the  neighbors,  they  was  all  strange-like  an' 
kind,  'cept  when  I  went  to  look  in  the  black  coffin 
under  the  flag,  where  Joey  was.  Newt  Gillespie 

took  me  by  the  arm  and (Pause.)  You  tell 

'em,  Newt,  what  you  said  to  me. 

GILLESPIE.    I  hev  told  'em — more'n  once. 

SHANKS.    Tell  her.    She  never  heered  it. 

GILLESPIE.     I'd  give  my  word  'fore  he  died. 

SHANKS.     (To  MADELINE. )    His  word  to  Joey. 

GILLESPIE.  Yes.  He  said  :  "If  you  take  me  back, 
don't  let  him  see  me.  If  he  on'y  fought  on  the  other 
side,  I'd  o'  been  proud,  even  if  he'd  been  the  one 
that  shot  me — but  no  copperhead."  An'  I  did.  Right 
in  the  church,  I  jes'  tuk  him  by  the  arm  and  said : 

"It  was  his  particular  last  request "  quiet-like, 

as  I'm  talkin'  now,  and  led  him  out  o'  the  church. 
An',  by  God,  I'd  do  it  agin ! 

MADELINE.    Oh,  Grandpa! 

SHANKS.  That  left  only  little  Elsie,  yer  ma — an' 
she  was  so  little  I  couldn't  leave  her  alone,  and  I 


90  THE    COPPERHEAD 

was  carryin'  her  on  my  arm.  Newt  Gillespie  was 
the  only  man  'at  spoke  to  me — and  in  the  whole 
United  States — yes,  in  the  whole  world —  only  one 
man  wrote  to  me.  (Pause)  I  kep'  his  letter — nat- 
ural   (Gets  letter  from  box.)  I'm  gonna  ask 

Colonel  Hardy  ter  read  it.  (Takes  letter  from  old 
flag  and  hands  it,  open,  to  HARDY,  j  Careful,  Col- 
onel. It's  a  keepsake  with  me.  An'  then  that's  all 
I've  got  to  say.  If  'twasn't  fur  Madeline  and  Philip 
— and  I  know  they're  lovin'  each  other  and  sep- 
aratin' — 

HARDY.  My  God!  Who's  crazy — you  or  I — 
Milt  Shanks!  Milt  Shanks! 

RANDALL.    What  is  it,  Colonel? 

SHANKS.    Read  it,  Colonel  Hardy. 

HARDY.  (Reads)  "Executive  Mansion,  Wash- 
ington, April  nth,  1865.  Mr.  Milton  Shanks,  Mill- 
ville.  Dear  Milt:  Lee's  surrender  ends  it  all.  I 
cannot  think  of  you  without  a  sense  of  guilt,  but  it 
had  to  be.  I  alone  knew  what  you  did — and,  even 
more,  what  you  endured.  I  cannot  reward  you — 
man  cannot  reward  anything  worth  while — there  is 
only  One  who  can.  I  send  you  a  flag  handkerchief. 
(SHANKS  unconsciously  touches  the  flag.)  It  is  not 
new,  but  you  will  prize  it  the  more  for  that.  I  hope 
to  shake  your  hand  some  time.  Your  friend,  A. 
Lincoln." 

SHANKS.  Colonel,  do  you  recollec'  the  time  you 
druv  me  to  the  train  in  March  o'  sixty-one? 

HARDY.    Very  well.    You  went  to  look  at  cattle. 

SHANKS.  That's  what  I  told  you.  I  wuz  called 
to  Washington  by  Lincoln,  an'  two  days  later,  at 
night,  in  his  library — White  House — he  walked  over 
to'erd  a  winder,  and,  without  turnin'  round,  he  says : 

"Milt "  (Pause.)  Funny  I  remember  a  clock 

tickin'  on  the  mantelpiece (Pause.)  I  sez: 

"Mr.  President "  (Pause.)  "Milt,  how  much 

do  you  love  yer  country?"  (Pause.)  "I  cahilate 


THE    COPPERHEAD  91 

I'd  die  for  it,"  I  sez.  (Shakes  head.)  /"Thousands 
o'  boys  is  a-cryin  to  do  that."  Then  he  turned 
round.  "Would  you  give  up  sumpin'  more'n  life?" 
(Pause.)  "Try  me,"  I  sez.  The  President  run  his 
hands  through  his  hair  an'  went  on :  "It  means  to  be 
odious  in  the  eyes  of  men  and  women — ter  eat  yer 
heart  out — alone — fur  you  can't  tell  yer  wife — ner 
chile — ner  friend."  (Pause.)  "Go  on,"  I  sez. 
(Pause.)  "The  Southern  sympathizers  are  organiz- 
ing in  our  State — really  worse  than  the  soldiers.  I 
want  you  ter  jine  them  Knights  o'  the  Golden  Circle 
— ter  be  one  of  them — their  leader,  if  you  kin.  I 
need  you,  Milt.  Yer  country  needs  you."  (Pause.) 
Hadn't  been  two  minutes  since  he  was  laffin',  but  he 
lifted  his  hands,  and  it  seemed  we  wuz  the  only 
folks  in  the  world — (Pause.) — and  that  clock — 
(Pause.) — funny  I  remember  that.  (Pause.)  "I'll 
do  it,"  I  sez.  (Pause.)  He  tuk  a  little  flag  out  o' 
his  pocket — like  as  not  this  very  one — put  it  on  the 
table  like  I'm  puttin'  it.  (Pause.)  "As  Chief 
Magistrate  of  the  nation,  I'll  muster  you  inter  the 
nation's  service,"  he  said.  He  laid  my  hand  where 
the  blue  is  and  all  the  stars,  and  put  his  hand  over 
mine.  (Business  suggested  with  cast.)  Only  open, 
of  course — (Uses  his  own  hand.) — and  said  nothin' 
— (Pause.  Nods.) — jes'  looked  in  my  eyes — an' 

looked (Pause.)    Well,  I  jined  'em.    (Pause.) 

It  was  terrible,  when  I  couldn't  tell  my  boy — (Looks 
at  PHILIP,) — when  he  marched  off.  (To  MRS.  MAN- 
NING. )  Sixteen,  you  know — blue  eyes (Pause. 

MADELINE  takes  his  hand  and  kisses  it.  The  action 
startles  him  a  little.)  It  ruined  the  Governor  that 
pardoned  me  out  o'  Joliet,  where  -I  was  convicted  to 
— but  I've  allers  figured  he  had  his  orders  from 
Washington — same  as  me — an'  couldn't  talk  about 
it.  An  even  when  Vicksburg  come,  and  Joey  was 
dead,  why,  the  war  wasn't  over. 


92  THE    COPPERHEAD 

HARDY.  But,  damn  it,  in  all  these  years  we've 
despised  you,  why  haven't  you  told? 

SHANKS.  Told  who?  Couldn't  tell  Joey  or  his 
mother,  and,  with  them  gone — tellin'  anybody  seemed 
so — so  useless.  Only  now,  when  it's  separatin'  her 
an*  Philip  an'  spoilin'  her  election — in  the  school 
board 

HARDY.  Her  election !  Why,  damn  it,  that  story'd 
elect  a  wooden  Indian !  (GILLESPIE  grabs  SHANKS' 
coat.) 

RANDALL.    What  are  you  doing? 

GILLESPIE.  Take  that  off.  This  coat  don't  belong 
on  me. 

SHANKS.    Newt — not  yer  Grand  Army  coat? 

GILLESPIE.  Git  in  it !  Here's  the  hat.  (Goes  to 
door,  carrying  SHANKS'  coat.)  Bring  him  to  that 
meetin'.  I'm  a  damn  fool,  but,  by  God,  I  ain't  no 
skunk !  (Exit.) 

MADELINE.    Oh,  Grandpa! 

SHANKS.    (Loving  the  coat)    The  blue 

RANDALL.    The  hat,  Mr.  Shanks! 

SHANKS.  An'  a  cord  round  it.  If  they  was  only 
a  lookin'  glass. 

MRS.  MANNING.  Come,  Colonel.  (HARDY  crosses 
to  SHANKS — returns  the  letter.  The  two  men  join 
hands  in  speechless  emotion  a  moment.) 

SHANKS.  (Forviving)  Tom!  (HARDY  pats 
SHANKS'  shoulder  and  moves  on.  With  flag.)  All 
right,  now,  to  carry  this,  ain't  it? 

PHILIP.    I  should  say  it  was ! 

SHANKS.  God!  It's  wonderful — (Pauses  and 
inhales) — to  hev  friends  agin !  (Goes.  PHILIP  takes 
MADELINE  in  his  arms — MRS.  MANNING  watching 
them  from  right.)' 

(CURTAIN.) 


THE  CHARM  SCHOOL 

Comedy  in  3  acts.  By  Alice  Duer  Miller  and  Robert 
Milton.  Produced  originally  at  the  Bijou  Theatre  in  New 
York.  6  males,  10  females.  (May  be  played  by  j  males 
and  3  females).  Any  number  of  school  girls  may  be  used 
in  the  ensembles.  2  interior  scenes.  Modern  costumes. 

The  story  of  "The  Charm  School"  is  familiar  to  Mrs.  Miller's 
readers.  It  relates  the  adventures  of  a  handsome  young  automobile 
salesman  scarcely  out  of  his  'teens  who,  upon  inheriting  a  girls' 
boarding  school  from  a  maiden  aunt,  insists  on  running  it  himself, 
according  to  his  own  ideas,  chief  of  which  is,  by  the  way,  that  the 
dominant  feature  in  the  education  of  the  young  girl  of  today 
should  be  CHARM. 

The  situations  that  arise  are  teeming  with  humor — clean,  whole- 
some humor.  In  the  end  the  young  man  gives  up  the  school  and 
promises  to  wait  until  the  most  precocious  of  his  pupils  reaches  a 
marriageable  age.  The  freshness  of  youth,  the  charm  of  originality, 
and  the  wholesome  pleasant  entertainment  embodied  in  this  play 
make  it  one  of  the  most  popular  on  our  list.  We  strongly  recommend 
it  for  high  school  production. 

(Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  PRICE  75  CENTS. 


CLARENCE 

A  comedy  in  4  acts.  By  Booth  Tarkington.  5  males,  5 
females.  ^  interior  scenes.  Modern  costumes. 

Clarence  has  no  medals,  no  shoulder  bars,  no  great  accomplish- 
ment. One  of  the  "five  million,"  he  served  where  he  was  sent — 
though  it  was  no  further  than  Texas.  As  an  entomologist  he  found 
— on  this  side  of  the  ocean — no  field  for  his  specialty  in  the  great 
war.  So  they  set  him  to  driving  mules. 

Now,  reduced  to  civil  life  and  seeking  a  job,  he  finds  a  position 
in  the  home  of  one  Wheeler,  a  wealthy  Englewood  man  with  a 
family.  And  because  he'd  "been  in  the  army"  he  becomes  guide, 
philosopher  and  friend  to  the  members  of  the  same  agitated  and 
distracted  family  group.  Clarence's  position  is  an  anomalous  one.  He 
mends  the  bathroom  plumbing,  he  tunes  the  piano,  he  types — off 
stage — he  plays  the  saxophone.  And  around  him  revolves  such  a 
group  of  characters  as  only  Booth  Tarkington  could  offer.  It  is  a 
real  American  comedy;  and  the  audience  ripples  with  appreciative 
and  delighted  laughter. 

"It  is  as  American  as  'Huckleberry  Finn"  or  pumpkin  pie."  N.  Y. 
Times. 


(Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  PRICE  75  CENTS. 


A  CHURCH  MOUSE 

A  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  Ladislaus  Fodor.  Produced 
originally  by  William  A.  Brady,  Ltd.,  at  the  Playhouse, 
New  York,  y  males,  2  females.  2  interior  scenes.  Modern 
costumes. 

This  sparkling,  tender  and  entirely  captivating  little  comedy  is  one 
of  the  most  delightful  items  that  we  hare  added  to  our  list  in  a  long 
time.  As  Robert  Garland,  in  reviewing  the  New  York  production  for 
the  New  York  World-Telegram,  puts  it — "it  spoofed  big  business  and 
•went  as  far  as  to  laugh  out  loud  in  the  face  of  the  depression."  There 
is  enough  good  clean  laughter  in  this  play  to  make  it  a  welcome 
visitor  at  any  theatre. 

The  story  is  concerned  with  the  manner  in  which  a  plain,  but  very 
efficient,  stenographer  first  gets  a  position  as  the  secretary  to  a  great 
Viennese  bank  president,  and  how  finally  she  becomes  his  wife.  To 
bring  this  about  she  discards  her  plain  office  clothes,  adorns  herself 
in  a  becoming  evening  dress  and  decides  to  make  her  employer  realize 
that  she  is  more  than  a  writing  machine.  Her  change  of  costume 
effects  so  complete  a  transformation  that  everyone  who  sees  her  hails 
her  as  ravishing  and  exquisite;  so  much  so  that  the  bank  president 
asks  her — little  Susie  Sachs — to  become  his  wife — the  Baroness  voa 
Ullrich,  if  you  please.  A  captivating  and  refreshing  comedy,  ideal  for 
amateur  and  little  theatre  production. 

(Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  PUCE  75  CENTS. 


POLLY  WITH  A  PAST 

Comedy  in  3  acts.  By  George  Middleton  and  Guy 
Bolton.  7  males,  5  females.  2  interiors.  Modern  costumes. 

"Polly"  is  one  of  the  most  successful  comedies  of  recent  years. 
Produced  by  David  Belasco,  with  Ina  Claire  in  the  leading  role, 
it  ran  a  whole  season  at  the  Belasco  Theatre,  New  York,  as  well 
as  in  London.  The  play  has  to  do  with  the  clever  efforts  of  a  girl  to 
manufacture  for  herself  a  picturesque  past  in  order  to  make  herself 
more  interesting  and  attractive.  The  little  deceit  gets  many  persons 
into  trouble,  but  Polly  and  her  friends  eventually  turn  the  trouble  to 
good  account,  and  Polly  finds  herself — after  the  secret  is  divulged — 
even  more  interesting  and  attractive  than  before,  despite  her  desperate 
confession  to  being  the  daughter  of  a  Baptist  clergyman.  Exceedingly 
good  fun,  with  just  enough  sophistication. 

Your  audience  will  find  here  an  entertainment  that  is  dainty, 
sparkling  and  diverting. 


(Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  PRICE  7j  CENTS. 


COME  OUT  OF  THE  KITCHEN 

A  charming  comedy  in  3  acts.  Adapted  by  A.  E. 
Thomas  from  the  story  of  the  same  name  by  Alice  Duer 
Miller.  Produced  originally  by  Henry  Miller  at  the  Cohan 
Theatre,  New  York.  6  males,  j  females.  3  interior  scenes. 
Modern  costumes. 

The  story  is  written  around  a  Virginia  family  of  the  old  aristoc- 
racy, who,  finding  themselves  temporarily  embarrassed,  decide  to 
rent  their  home  to  a  rich  Yankee.  The  lease  stipulated  that  a  competent 
staff  of  white  servants  should  be  engaged,  and  one  of  the  daughters  of 
the  family  conceives  the  mad-cap  idea  that  she,  her  sister  and  their 
two  brothers  shall  act  as  the  domestic  staff.  Olivia  who  is  the  ring- 
leader in  the  merry  scheme,  elects  to  preside  over  the  destinies  of  the 
kitchen.  When  Burton  Crane  arrives  from  the  North,  accompanied 
by  Mrs.  Falkener,  her  daughter  and  Crane's  attorney,  Tucker,  they 
find  the  staff  of  servants  to  possess  so  many  methods  of  behavior  out 
of  the  ordinary  that  amusing  complications  begin  to  arise  immediately. 
Olivia's  charm  and  beauty  impress  Crane  above  everything  else  and 
the  merry  story  continues  through  a  maze  of  delightful  incidents 
until  the  real  identity  of  the  heroine  is  finally  disclosed,  but  not 
until  Crane  has  professed  his  love  for  his  charming  cook,  and  the 
play  ends  with  the  brightest  prospects  of  happiness  for  these  two 
young  people. 

(Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  PRICE  75  CENTS. 


JONESY 

Comedy  in  3  acts.  By  Anne  Morrison  and  John  Peter 
Toohey.  Produced  originally  by  Earl  Boothe  at  the  Bijou 
Theatre,  New  York.  8  males,  5  females,  i  interior.  Mod- 
ern costumes. 

The  "Jonesy"  of  the  title  is  Wilbur  Jones,  who  comes  home 
from  college  bringing  a  fraternity  brother  with  him.  Engaged  to 
the  girl  next  door,  his  vagrant  fancy  is  attracted  by  the  ingenue 
of  the  local  stock  company.  His  father  and  mother  assume  that 
he  is  trying  to  elope  with  the  actress,  and  try  to  save  him.  Before 
they  discover  that  the  girl  is  the  niece  of  their  most  influential 
townsman,  the  man  from  whom  senior  Jones  hopes  to  get  a  good 
job,  they  have  let  themselves  in  for  many  embarrassing  complica- 
tions. With  this  matter  reasonably  adjusted,  they  make  the  further 
discovery  that  their  son  has  sold  the  family  car  to  pay  his  poker 
debts  and  when  the  father  attempts  to  recover  the  car  he  gets  him- 
self arrested.  Many  humorous  complications  arise  that  unravel  them- 
selves into  a  happy  ending. 

(Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)   PRICE  7;  CENTS. 


THE  MIDDLE  WATCH 

A  farcical  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  Ian  Hay  and  Stephen 
King-Hall.  Produced  originally  at  the  Times  Square 
Theatre,  New  York.  9  males,  6  females.  Modern  costumes 
and  naval  uniforms.  2  interior  scenes. 

During  a  reception  on  board  H.  M.  S.  "Falcon,"  a  cruiser  on  the 
China  Station,  Captain  Randall  of  the  Marines  has  become  engaged  to 
Fay  Eaton,  and  in  his  enthusiasm  induces  her  to  stay  and  have  dinner 
in  his  cabin.  This  is  met  with  stern  disapproval  by  Fay's  chaperon, 
Charlotte  Hopkinson,  who  insists  that  they  leave  at  once.  Charlotte, 
however,  gets  shut  up  in  the  compass  room,  and  a  gay  young  Ameri- 
can widow  accepts  the  offer  to  take  her  place,  both  girls  intending 
to  go  back  to  shore  in  the  late  evening.  Of  course,  things  go  wrong, 
and  they  have  to  remain  aboard  all  night.  By  this  time  the  Captain 
has  to  be  told,  because  his  cabin  contains  the  only  possible  accommo- 
dations, and  he  enters  into  the  conspiracy  without  signalling  the  Ad- 
miral's flagship.  Then  the  "Falcon"  is  suddenly  ordered  to  sea,  and 
the  Admiral  decides  to  sail  with  her.  This  also  makes  necessary  the 
turning  over  to  him  of  the  Captain's  quarters.  The  presence  of  the 
ladies  now  becomes  positively  embarrassing.  The  girls  are  bundled  into 
one  cabin  just  opposite  that  occupied  by  the  Admiral.  The  game  of 
"general-post"  with  a  marine  sentry  in  stockinged  feet  is  very  funny, 
and  so  are  the  attempts  to  explain  matters  to  the  "Old  Man"  next 
morning.  After  this  everything  ends  both  romantically  and  happily. 

(Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  PRICE  75  CENTS. 


NANCY'S  PRIVATE  AFFAIR 

A  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  Myron  C.  Pagan.  Produced 
originally  at  the  Vanderbilt  Theatre,  New  York.  4  males, 
5  females.  2  interior  scenes.  Modern  costumes. 

Nothing  is  really  private  any  more — not  even  pajamas  and  bedtime 
stories.  No  one  will  object  to  Nancy's  private  affair  being  made  public, 
and  it  would  be  impossible  to  interest  the  theatre  public  in  a  more 
ingenious  plot.  Nancy  is  one  of  those  smart,  sophisticated  society 
women  who  wants  to  win  back  her  husband  from  a  baby  vamp.  Just 
how  this  is  accomplished  makes  for  an  exceptionally  pleasant  evening. 
Laying  aside  her  horn-rimmed  spectacles,  she  pretends  indifference  and 
affects  a  mysterious  interest  in  other  men.  Nancy  baits  her  rival  with 
a  bogus  diamond  ring,  makes  love  to  her  former  husband's  best  friend, 
and  finally  tricks  the  dastardly  rival  into  a  marriage  with  someone 
else. 

Mr.  Fagan  has  studded  his  story  with  jokes  and  retorts  that  will 
keep  anv  audience  in  a  constant  uproar. 


(Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  PRICE  75  CENTS. 


000  108  185    o 

THE  GH{j&±    j.  JLWJLAJLI 

A  mystery  thriller  in  3  acts.  By  Arnold  Ridley.  Pro- 
duced originally  at  the  Eltinge  Theatre,  New  York.  7 
males,  4  females,  i  interior  scene.  Modern  costumes. 

The  story  is  laid  in  a  peaceful  village  in  Maine  where  there  lives 
a  superstition  of  twenty  years  standing  about  a  ghost  train  which 
flashes  by  in  the  dead  of  night,  swinging  the  scythe  of  death.  Rum- 
runners use  this  superstition  to  their  own  advantage  in  the  transporta- 
tion of  liquor  from  Canada.  As  the  night  train  draws  into  the  small 
station,  some  passengers  get  off  and  the  train  moves  on.  These 
passengers  are  compelled  to  wait  all  night,  for  they  have  missed  con- 
nections. And  what  a  night  they  spend.  When  the  decrepit  old 
station-master  tells  them  about  the  terrifying  "Ghost  Train,"  bring- 
ing death  to  all  who  observe  it,  they  just  poo-pooh  the  idea.  But 
everything  happens  as  forecast.  The  station-master  is  stricken  dead 
mysteriously.  The  signal  bell  rings.  The  engine  whistles.  The  train 
roars  through  the  junction  and  one  who  rashly  gazes  upon  it  appar- 
ently succumbs.  Lovers  of  mystery  plays  will  find  here  a  piece  to 
their  liking. 

"If  you  want  a  hair-raising,  seat-gripping  ride,  buy  your  tickets 
early  for  'The  Ghost  Train.'"  New  York  Mirror. 

(Royalty,  thirty-five  dollars.)  PRICE  75  CENTS. 


THE  SPIDER 

A  mystery  play  in  3  acts.  By  Fulton  Oursler  and  Lowell 
Brentano.  Produced  originally  at  Channin's  Forty-Sixth 
Street  Theatre  in  New  York.  21  males,  3  females.  5  in- 
terior scenes.  Modern  costumes. 

Here  is  a  novelty,  if  there  ever  was  one,  replete  with  chills  and 
fevers.  The  authors  have  represented  the  dastardly  murder  of  Carring- 
ton,  not  on  the  stage,  but  in  the  audience.  While  Alexander,  assistant 
to  Chatrand  the  Great,  is  reading  the  initials  on  your  watch  the 
lights  go  out,  a  shot  is  fired  and  when  the  lights  go  up  again  Car- 
rington  is  discovered  mortally  wounded  on  a  runway  over  the 
orchestra  pit  and  immediately  the  theatre  is  loud  with  excitement. 
Who  fired  the  shot?  As  the  play  goes  on  through  the  succeeding 
scenes,  bringing  doctors  and  policemen  up  the  aisles,  bidding  the 
audience  to  remain  seated,  and  posting  officers  at  every  exit  to  pre- 
vent escape,  suspicion  rests  on  the  magician,  the  girl  and  others. 
Shots  bark  here  and  there.  House  lights  go  on  and  off.  Ghastly 
objects  swing  across  the  darkness;  strange  faces  and  eerie  voices. 
And  all  in  good  time  the  slippery  scoundrel  is  discovered. 

(Royalty,  thirty-five  dollars.)  PRICE  75  CENTS. 


FRENCH'S 

Standard  Library  Edition 


Includes 

Philip  Barry 

Sidney  Howard 

George  Kaufman 

Harley  Oranville-Barker 

The  Capeks 

Phil  Dunning 

George  Abbott 

Dorothy  Parker 

Perenc  Molnar 

Hatcher  Hughes 

A  very  Hop  woo  J 

Ring  Lardner 

Tom  Gushing 

Elmer  Rice 

Maxwell  Andersen 

The  Quinteros 

Lynn  Riggs 

Susan  Glaspell 

Rose  Pranken 

John  van  Druten 

Benn  W.  Levy 

Martha  Stanley 

John  Golden 

Don  Marquis 

Beulah  Marie  Dlx 

Zona  Gale 

Alfred  Kreymborg 

P.  Q.  Wodehouse 

Noel  Coward 

Ian  Hay 

J.  B.  Prleatly 

Mary  Robert*  R  In  chart 

Ashley  Dukes 

George  M.  Cohan 

Augustus  Thomas 

Winchell  Smith 

William  Gillette 

Frank  Craven 

Owen  Davis 

Austin  Strong 

A.  A.  Milne 

Harriet  Ford 

Paul  Green 

James  Montgomery 

Edward  Childs  Carpenter 

Arthur  Richman 

George  Middleton 

Cbannlng  Pollock 

George  Kaufman 

Martin  Flavin 

Victor  Mapes 

Kate  Douglas  Wiggin 

Roi  Cooper  Megrue 

Jean  Webster 

George  Broadhurst 

Madeline  Lucette  Ryley 


Plays  by 

Fred  Ballard 

Percy  MacKayc 

Willard  Mack 

Jerome  K.  Jerome 

Mark  Swan 

Rachel  Crothers 

W.  W.  Jacobs 

Ernest  Denny 

Kenyon  Nicholson 

Edgar  Selwyn 

Laurence  Housnun 

Israel  Zangwill 

Walter  Hackett 

A.  E.  Thomas 

Edna  Ferber 

Justin  Huntley  McCarthy 

Frederick  Lonsdale 

Rex  Beach 

Paul  Armstrong 

George  Kelly 

Booth  Tarkington 

George  Ade 

J.  C.  and  Elliott  Nugent 

Barry  Conners 

Edith  Ellis 

Harold  Brighouse 

Harvey  J.  O'Higgins 

Clare  Kumraer 

James  Forbes 

William  C.  DeMllfe 

Louis  N.  Parker 

Lewis  Beacb 

Guy  Bolton 

Edward  E.  Rose 

Marc  Connelly 

Lynn  Starling 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 

Catherine  Cnisholm  Cashing 

Clyde  Fitch 

Earl  Derr  Biggers 

Thomas  Broadhurst 

Charles  Klein 

Bayard  Veiller 

C.  Haddon  Chambers 

Richard  Harding  Davis 

Robert  Housum 

Salisbury  Field 

Leo  Dietrichtstein 

Eden  Phillpotts 

Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle 

B  ration  Tynan 

Clayton  Hamilton 

Edward  Sheldon 

Edward  Paulton 

Adelaide  Matthews 

William  Cary  Duncan 


>    Send  for  our  latest  complete  Catalogue 

SAMUEL    FRENCH 

Oldest  Play  Publisher  in  the  World 

25  West  45th  Street,  811  West  7th  Street, 

New  York,  N.Y.  Los  Angeles,  Calif. 


